DRAMATIC  READER 

FOR 

GRAMMAR  GRADF^  'i 


GIFT  OF 


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DRAMATIC    READER 


FOR   GRAMMAR   GRADES 


BY 

MARIETTA    KNIGHT 


NEW  YORK  • :  ■  CINCINNATI  • :  •  CHICAGO 

AMERICAN    BOOK    COMPANY 


Copyright,  1910,  by 
MARIETTA   KNIGHT. 

Entered  at  Stationers'  Hall,  Londo> 

knight's  dramatic  reader. 

W.  P.  I  "^v 


PREFACE 

An  experience  of  ten  years  in  helping  boys  and 
girls  to  present  scenes  from  small  plays  has  given 
me  convincing  evidence  that  the  dramatic  instinct 
is  strong  in  children,  and  an  experience  of  more 
than  ten  years  of  teaching  has  made  it  clear  that 
the  ordinary  school  material  and  school  work  do 
little  to  satisfy  and  develop  that  instinct.  Then, 
too,  every  teacher  knows  how  rare  is  the  child  who 
reads  with  natural  intonation  and  emphasis.  As 
soon  as  he  begins  to  read  he  begins  to  be  artificial. 
But  this  artificiality  is  always  less  evident  when 
children  lose  themselves  in  pretending  to  be  some 
one  else.  Then  they  show  spontaneity,  natural 
tones,  and  expression,  and  then  there  are  few  in 
the  little  school  audience  whose  wits  have  gone 
woolgathering. 

I  hope  that  this  book  will  help  both  to  satisfy 
the  child's  appetite  and  develop  better  oral  reading. 

These  dialogues  are  not  "plays";  they  are  not 
intended  for  action,  but  for  reading.  In  the  adapta- 
tion of  narrative  material,  the  process  has  been 
mainly  that  of  elimination,  the  purpose  having  been 
to  alter  the  original  material  as  little  as  possible. 


finACkA  Q 


PREFACE 


I  gratefully  acknowledge  the  courtesy  of  the 
Lothrop,  Lee,  and  Shepard  Company,  the  Mac- 
millan  Company,  and  the  Houghton  Mifflin  Com- 
pany in  allowing  the  use  of  material. 


CONTENTS 


Mrs.  Bangs's  Pies  :   A  Thanksgiving  Story 

How  THE  Little  Smiths  got  their  Fourth-of-July  Money 

So-so 

Alice  in  Wonderland     . 

A  Mad  Tea  Party  . 

Diamond  and  the  North  Wind 

Maggie  Tulliver's  Visit  to  the  Gypsies 

Scenes  from  "A  Little  Maid  of  Concord  Town" 

The  Destruction  of  Treasure  Valley 

Little  Cosette  and  "Father  Christmas" 

Scenes  from  "John  Halifax,  Gentleman" 

The  Miraculous  Pitcher 

Pandora's  Box  .... 

The  Pomegranate  Seeds 

Jean  Valjean  and  the  Bishop 

Ebenezer  Scrooge's  Christmas 

Giles  Corey  of  the  Salem  Farms 

The  Gold-bug  .... 

A  Scene  at  Kenilworth  Castle 

Scenes  from  "William  Tell" 

Scenes  from  "Julius  Caesar" 

5 


7 
17 
25 
31 
37 
45 
63 
69 

85 
93 

103 

i»5 
125 

131 

147 

159  ^ 
181 

195 
215 
227 
249 


Tommy  invites  the  Barkers  to  Dinner 


DRAMATIC    READER 

MRS.  BANGS'S  PIES:   A  THANKSGIVING 

STORY 

SCENE  I 


Characters  \  Tommy  Bangs 


[Mrs.  Bangs 

[  Moses  Bangs 

Mrs.  Bangs.  Twenty-three  pies !  and  only  two 
boys  to  eat  them  !     That  never'll  do ! 

Tommy.  I  know  who'd  come,  mother,  if  you 
asked  him.     He'd  be  awfully  glad ! 

Mrs.  Bangs.  Who  ?  Twenty-one,  twenty-two — 
yes,  that  quince  tart  over  in  the  corner  makes  just 
twenty-three.  It's  a  mite  burned  on  the  edge,  to  be 
sure,  but,  then,  it  counts;  and  boys  won't  mind  so 
long's  it's  a  pie.  Who  is  it.  Tommy,  we'd  better 
ask  to  Thanksgiving  .f* 

Tommy.  Jed  Barker.  Oh,  my,  isn't  that  a  mon- 
ster !     I  never  saw  such  raisins. 

Mrs.  Bajzgs.  Jed  Barker !  Why,  'twas  only  yes- 
terday that  you  wouldn't  speak  to  him ;  and  now 
you  want  him  to  come  to  Thanksgiving. 

7 


8  MRS.    BANGS'S   PIES 

Tommy,  Oh,  well,  he's  a  good  enough  fellow. 
{Pickiiig  up  a  bunch  of  raisins.)  Do  you  want  me 
to  seed  these,  mother,  for  the  pudding? 

Mrs.  Bmigs.  They're  being  seeded  pretty  fast 
now,  I  should  think.  Mercy!  how  they've  gone! 
Is  that  the  bottom  of  the  box } 

Tommy.  It  does  take  such  lots  for  cake.  A  box 
doesn't  last  any  time,  mother. 

Mrs.  Bangs  {looking  sharply  at  him).  I  should 
think  not.  Well,  Thanksgiving  doesn't  come  but 
once  a  year,  so  you  might  as  well  have  a  nice  time, 
I  s'pose,  if  the  raisins  do  have  to  suffer.  Now,  what 
in  the  world  do  you  want  that  Jed  Barker  to  come 
here  on  Thanksgiving  for.  Tommy  .^^ 

Tommy.  He  won't  get  anything  at  home;  just 
think  of  it  —  not  even  a  chicken  !  And  we're  going 
to  have  such  a  time. 

Mrs.  Bangs.  Are  the  Barkers  poor?  Why,  I 
never  supposed  it.  His  mother  wears  a  silk  gown 
to  meeting  and  mine's  only  an  alpaca,  and  I'm  sure 
her  bonnets  are  a  sight  better  than  mine. 

Tommy.  Well,  they're  just  awful  poor.  Now 
I'll  tell  you  something.     Is  the  door  shut? 

Mrs.  Bangs.  Yes.  Whatever  is  the  matter 
with  these  Barkers  ?  Do  tell  on,  Tommy ;  you 
make  me  nervous  as  a  witch. 

Tommy,     And  are  you  sure  Mose  isn't  upstairs? 

Mrs.  Bangs.  As  sure  as  I  can  be ;  haven't  I 
sent  him  to  the  store  for  some  molasses  ?     If  you 


A   THANKSGIVING   ST(3RY  9 

don't  hurry  and  tell  what  you're  going  to,  Tommy 
Bangs,  you  sha'n't  have  any  Thanksgiving;  that's 
settled. 

Tommy.  Well,  I  was  coming  up  past  there 
yesterday,  and  — 

Mrs.  Bangs,  From  school,  do  you  mean? 
What  made  you  go  that  way? 

Tommy.  Oh,  the  other  boys  were  all  going,  so  I 
said  I'd  go  too.  Well,  teacher  asked  me  if  I'd  take 
Jed's  book  to  him,  'cause  he  wasn't  at  school,  and  I 
said  yes  — 

Mrs.  Bangs.  "  Yes,  sir,"  you  mean.  Didn't  you 
have  any  better  manners  than  that  ? 

Tommy,  I  said  "yes,  sir,"  to  him;  but  I'm  telling 
you  now,  and  Mose'll  be  back  if  I  don't  hurry. 

Mrs.  Bangs.     Go  on  ;  what  next  ? 

Tommy.  Well,  I  ran  ahead  of  the  others ;  they 
waited  at  the  corner  'cause  they  didn't  want  to  see 
him, and  — 

Mrs.  Bangs.  I  don't  see  why  you  boys  can't 
any  of  you  take  to  Jed  Barker.  Isn't  he  a  good 
boy,  Tom  ? 

Tommy.  He  —  well,  he's  a  brick,  mother.  There 
isn't  any  boy  round  here  would  have  done  what  he's 
been  doing.  Say,  won't  you  have  him  to  Thanks- 
giving?    Do,  ma. 

Mrs.  Bangs.  How  can  I  tell,  till  I  know  what 
you're  driving  at?  You're  enough  to  drive  any- 
body crazy.  Tommy,  you  are. 


lo  MRS.   BANGS'S   PIES 

Tommy.  And  I  looked  through  the  window, 
and  what  do  you  think  I  saw  ? 

Mrs.  Bangs.  If  you  peeked,  you're  not  any  child 
of  mine!     Don't  say  you  did  that. 

Tommy.  I  didn't  peek.  I  couldn't  help  see  as  I 
went  past  the  window.     I  couldn't. 

Mrs.  Bangs.     What  was  it  ? 

Tommy.  'Twas  a  bed  in  the  corner,  right  down 
on  the  floor ;  and  a  little  girl  was  lying  on  it  not 
much  bigger  than  Mose.  And  —  and  —  she  said, 
"  Come  in,"  so  I  went. 

Mrs.  Bangs.  How  did  she  look.  Tommy  ? 
Why,  I  didn't  know  the  Barkers  had  any  little  girl. 

Tommy.  Oh,  she  looked  —  she  looked  —  oh, 
mother,  she  was  humpbacked ! 

Mrs.  Bangs.  Don't  take  on  so,  child.  I  dare 
say  she  was  only  resting;  she  probably  walks  all 
around. 

Tommy.     She  hasn't  ever  walked  ! 

Mrs.  Bajtgs.  Hasn't  ever  walked !  The  poor 
little  creature  !     Oh,  what  did  she  say.  Tommy.? 

Tommy.  She  didn't  say  anything  ;  only  told  me 
that,  'cause  she  couldn't  get  up  to  open  the  door 
for  me.  And  then  she  asked  me  to  sit  down  and 
wait  for  Jed.  And  I  did,  and  —  and  then  I  didn't 
know  what  to  say,  so  I  asked  her  if  she  was  going 
to  have  a  Thanksgiving ;  and  she  said  —  what  do 
you  think }  She  said  that  she  didn't  know  what 
they  were. 


A   THANKSGIVING   STORY  ii 

Mrs.  Bangs.     Why,  that's  worse  than  the  heathen ! 

Tommy.  And  I  told  her  'twas  to  eat  till  you 
couldn't  eat  any  more.  Not  bread  and  butter  and 
gingerbread,  but  lots  of  pie  and  turkey. 

Mrs,  Bangs.     What  did  she  say  ? 

Tommy.  She  didn't  say  anything  for  a  minute, 
and  then  she  said  "  oh  !"  It  scared  me  to  hear  her 
say  it,  ma.  And  she  said  they  never  had  any  butter 
on  their  bread, —  never,  —  and  Jed  was  saving  every 
bit  to  pay  the  doctor  to  come  every  little  while  to 
see  her  back ;  it  gets  so  bad.  And  out  of  school  he 
works  for  the  old  shoemaker  around  the  corner, 
and  runs  of  errands  for  lots  of  folks.  And  some- 
times he  goes  out  to  study  his  lessons  under  the 
street  lamps  ;  he  does  truly,  now,  ma  — 

Mrs.  Bangs.     Now,  Tommy,  I  don't  believe  that. 

Tommy.  She  said  so ;  true  s  I  live,  she  did ! 
And  the  mother  sews  and  sews  all  day,  except  when 
she  goes  to  carry  home  the  work,  and  Sundays ; 
for  she's  got  one  good  gown  a  lady  gave  her  before 
she  moved  here,  and  she  will  ^o  to  church. 

Mrs.  Bangs.  Oh,  Tommy,  how  I  have  envied 
that  gown !     Such  a  wicked  woman  as  I  have  been  ! 

Tommy.  You're  not  half  so  wicked  as  I  am. 
I  wouldn't  speak  to  him,  and  none  of  the  boys 
would,  'cause  we  thought  he  felt  so  smart. 

Mrs.  Bangs.  Tommy,  do  you  suppose  we'd 
have  time  to  run  over  to  Mrs.  Barker's  now,  you 
and  I }     We're   going  to  have  the  whole  of    them 


12  MRS.    BANGS'S   PIES 

over  here  to  Thanksgiving,  Tommy  Bangs !     What 
else  are  my  twenty-three  pies  for,  I'd  like  to  know? 

Tommy.  The  whole  of  'em  ?  The  little  girl  and 
all? 

Mrs.  Bangs.  The  whole  of  them.  Bless  you, 
yes.  That  poor  little  thing  shall  come  anyway. 
You  and  Jed  can  fetch  her  in  your  arms. 

Tommy  [capering  about  the  room).  Put  your 
bonnet  right  on;  never  mind  your  baking  gown, — 
don't,  ma. 

Mrs.  Bangs.  She  wouldn't  come  if  I  should  go 
in  that  rig. 

\Moses  comes  in  with  a  big  market  basket."] 

Moses.  Oh,  where  are  you  going?  My  arm's 
almost  broken,  ma,  dragging  that  old  thing. 

Mrs.  Bangs.  We're  going  out  of  an  errand, 
Tommy  and  I ;  and  you  must  keep  house  until  we 
get  back. 

Moses.     Where  are  you  going? 

Mrs.  Bangs  {smiling  at  Tommy).  To  get  some- 
thing for  Thanksgiving.  So  you  be  a  good  boy  and 
don't  tease,  and  we'll  tell  you  when  we  get  home. 

Moses.  Phooh !  I  don't  want  to  get  any  more 
things  for  Thanksgiving.  That  isn't  any  fun, 
lugging  great  heavy  things !  I  wish  Thanksgiving- 
was  here  now.     I  do ;  Tm  so  hungry. 

Mrs.  Bangs.  And  when  it  does  come,  it'll  be 
such  a  Thanksgiving  as  never  was ;  for  we're  going 


A   THANKSGIVING   STORY  13 

to  have  something  then  at  our  table  you've  never 
seen  there  before,  Mosie  Bangs. 

[^Mrs.  Bangs  and  Tommy  leave  the  house. 

SCENE    II 


Characters 


Mrs.  Bangs 
Tommy 
Mrs.  Barker 
Jed  Barker 
Janey  Barker 


When  Tommy  and  his  mother  reached  the  gate  of  the  Barkers' 
house,  Mrs.  Bangs's  courage  began  to  leave  her. 

Mrs.  Bangs.  I've  a  mind  not  to  go  in.  I  wish 
I'd  sent  you.  You  run  along  in  and  ask  'em, 
Tommy. 

Tommy.     What'll  I  say.?     How'U  I  do  it,  ma.? 

Mrs.  Bangs.  For  mercy's  sake!  You'll  have 
them  all  out  here,  if  you  don't  keep  still  —  sh  ! 

Tommy.  Well,  how'll  I  do  it .?  Oh,  I  see  some- 
body peeking  out  of  the  window. 

Mrs.  Bangs,  You  run  in  and  tell  them  —  no ; 
tell  Mrs.  Barker  that  it's  my  compliments,  and  ask 
her  if  she'll,  eat  our  Thanksgiving  dinner  with  us ! 

Tommy.  Not  all  of  it !  I  wish  I  hadn't  come,  I 
do.     Don't  let  'em  eat  all. 

Mrs.  Bangs.  You  silly  boy !  there'll  be  enough 
for  them  and  us  all  too,  —  more  than  you  can  eat, 
twice  over.     Do  be  still  ! 


14  MRS.   BANGS'S   PIES 

Tommy.  Will  there  be?  Oh,  then,  I'll  go  in 
right  smack  off. 

Tommy  {pushing  open  the  door).  It's  my  com- 
pelmunse  —  my  compelmunse  — 

Mrs.  Barker.     Who  is  this,  Jed  ? 
Janey.     Oh,  it's  the  boy  who  was  here  the  other 
day,  mammy;  the  nice  boy  who  told  all  about  Thanks- 
giving. 

Tommy.  That's  it.  And  that's  just  what  I  came 
for  to-night.  My  mother's  outside,  and  she  says 
you're  to  eat  some  of  our  Thanksgiving  dinner. 
And  it's  going  to  be  a  buster  !  {Pointing  to  Janey) 
She's  coming  anyway.     My  mother  said  so. 

Jed.     Say,  Janey,  you're  going !     Oh,  Janey,  just 
think !     You're  going  to  Thanksgiving  ! 

\_Mrs.  Barker  goes  out  quietly. 

Tommy.  Do  you  like  it  ?  Well,  then,  you  ought 
to  see  what  we're  going  to  have.  Yes,  sir,  it's  a 
goose  —  an  awful  fat  fellow.  And  it's  hanging  in 
the  back  pantry.  Mose  wanted  a  turkey,  but  I'd 
rather  have  a  goose  ;  so  we  drew  lots  with  some 
strings.  Mother  said  we  might ;  and  I  drew  a  goose, 
and  a  pudding  with  white  on  top,  and  lots  and  lots 
of  pies.  Oh,  I  guess  a  meetinghouse  full ;  yes,  sir, 
chuck  full. 

Janey.     O  —  h  ! 

\The  two  mothers  come  in  together^ 
Mrs.  Bangs  {going  to  Janey).     You  poor,  blessed 


A  THANKSGIVING   STORY  15 

little  creature,  you  !  To  think  you've  been  lying 
here  so  long,  and  I  never  knew  it ! 

Janey  {smiling).     You've  come  now. 

Mrs.  Bangs,  I've  come  now ;  and  you  won't  get 
rid  of  me  in  one  spell,  I  tell  you.  Tommy  Bangs, 
we  must  step  home  as  fast  as  we  can,  or  I  sha'n't 
get  ready  for  Thanksgiving,  as  true  as  you're  alive. 

Tommy.  And  if  Mose  should  eat  any  raisins,  I 
know  there  won't  be  enough  for  the  pudding.  Do 
hurry,  ma ! 

Mrs.  Bangs  {laughing).  Never  mind  the  pudding. 
We've  got'something  better  than  forty  puddings! 

Jed.     We  can't  ever  thank  you,  but  we'll  come. 

Janey.  We'll  come,  every  single  one :  mother, 
Jed,  and  I  ! 

From  "What  the  Seven  Did,"  by  Margaret  Sidney  (adapted). 


(i6) 


And  I  Shall  Becjin  now  for  Next  Year.    Yes.  I  Will' 


HOW    THE    LITTLE    SMITHS    GOT 
THEIR    FOURTH-OF-JULY    MONEY 


Characters 


Mr.  Smith 
Aunt  Nancy 
Harper  Smith 
Joe  Smith 
Lucy  Smith 


SCENE   I 

Ha7'per,  What  did  George  Washington  do,  I 
wonder,  on  the  Fourth  of  July? 

AmuI  Nancy.  Do  pray  be  still.  I  don't  know. 
I'm  sure  I  wish  there  wasn't  any  Fourth  of  July. 

Joe.  Oh,  Harp,  you  ninny !  There  wasn't  any 
Fourth  at  all  till  George  Washington  made  it. 

Atmt  Na7icy.  You  better  study  up.  You  don't 
begin  to  realize  what  the  guns  and  the  firecrackers 
and  the  torpedoes,  and  all  the  other  dreadful  things 
that  blow  up  people  and  knock  off  boys'  fingers  and 
toes,  are  for.  It  would  be  a  great  deal  better  if  boys 
had  more  history  in  their  heads  and  less  money  in 
their  pockets.  That's  the  way  to  celebrate,  I  think  ; 
and  I  mean  to  ask  your  father  about  it. 

Harper.  Oh,  don't,  dont,  Aunt  Nancy  —  please 
dont.  Don't  make  father  take  away  our  money; 
we  always  have  it,  you  know. 

KN.    DRAM.    READ. —  2  17 


1 8  HOW  THE  LITTLE   SMITHS   GOT 

Aunt  Nancy.  You  can  have  your  money ;  but 
you  ought  to  know  what  you're  spending  it  for.  I 
should,  I  know,  be  able  to  tell  something  about  my 
country,  and  who  fought  for  it. 

\Mr.  Smith  comes  in  and  they  sit  dozun  to  supper. 
After  the  table  is  cleared  the  children  beg 
for  a  story ^ 

foe.     Now,  father,  for  a  story. 

Mr.  Smith,  When  does  the  Fourth  of  July 
come  1 

foe.     It's  three  weeks  from  day  after  to-morrow. 

Mr,  Smith,  Well,  what  are  you  going  to  do  on 
the  Fourth  t 

Joe.     Oh,  everything. 

Harper,  You  said  you'd  give  us  more  money 
this  Fourth.  Don't  you  remember  .J^  'Cause  we're 
bigger,  you  know. 

Mr,  Smith.  And  so  you'll  try  to  blow  off  your 
heads  harder  than  ever,  I  suppose.  And  then 
who's  to  pay  the  doctor's  bills,  I  wonder. 

foe.  If  our  heads  were  off,  we  shouldn't  have  to 
have  the  doctor. 

Mr.  Smith  {laughing).  True  enough.  Well, 
heads  stand  for  everything  else  —  all  the  hurts,  I 
mean. 

Harper,  I'm  not  going  to  blow  off  my  head. 
Say,  father,  I  promise  you  I  won't.  Do  give  us  the 
money,  do. 


THEIR   FOURTH-OF-JULY   MONEY  19 

Mr.  Smith.  Do  you  want  more  than  you  had 
before  ? 

Harper,     Yes,  sir ;  I  want  forty  cannons. 

Aunt  Nancy.     Mercy ! 

Mr.  Smith.  Well,  then,  I'll  tell  you  how  you 
can  get  it. 

Ltuy.     Really,  papa  ? 

Mr.  Smith.  Really,  and  I  don't  mind  paying 
money  for  such  an  object.  It's  well  spent,  I  can 
tell  you.  Now,  boys,  see  here  —  and  Lucy,  too. 
You  all  .go  to  work  to-morrow  morning  and  work 
for  three  weeks  —  all  the  time  you  can  get  out  of 
school,  I  mean  —  and  study  up  everything  you  can 
get  hold  of  that  concerns  the  history  of  our  country, 
what  Fourth  of  July's  for,  who  made  the  country 
what  it  is  —  and  all  that.  Begin  at  the  very  foun- 
dation ;  get  all  the  information  you  possibly  can ; 
find  out  all  the  names  of  the  Presidents  for  one 
thing,  and  all  about  the  establishing  of  Congress ; 
most  of  the  principal  battles  and  all  that.  Then, 
three  weeks  from  to-morrow  night,  the  one  who 
knows  the  most,  and  can  tell  it  in  a  sensible  way 
that  shows  he  knows  what  he's  learned,  and  not  like 
a  parrot,  —  he  shall  have  the  most  money.  And  it 
shall  be  a  large  sum,  I  promise  you,  compared  to  what 
you  had  last  year.     That's  all.     Now  you  may  speak. 

Harper.  'Twas  all  Aunt  Nancy.  And  she 
wasn't  ever  a  boy,  and  she  doesn't  know  how  we 
want  things ! 


20  HOW   THE   LITTLE   SMITHS   GOT 

Joe.     We  never  can  do  it. 

Mr.  Smith.  Never  s  a  long  word.  Begin  to- 
night. Come,  boys,  get  out  the  maps,  and  we'll 
start  right  off,  now,  this  very  minute. 

Harper.  And  I'm  going  to  get  that  awful  old 
history ;  that'll  tell  lots. 

Mr.  Smith.     Do.     Go  along  too,  Joe  and  Lucy, 
and  get  all  the  books  you  can ;  then  we'll  see. 
\They  all  fall  to  work  turning  over  pages  ^  while  Mr, 
Smith  explains^ 

Aunt  Nancy.  I'm  going  to  have  a  finger  in 
this  Fourth  of  July  pie ;  so  you  needn't  think  to 
keep  me  out.  And  the  one  I  find  knows  the  most 
when  you  all  get  through  in  three  weeks,  why,  for 
him  there  are  some  stray  dollars  in  my  purse  that 
I  don't  know  what  to  do  with,  and  they  might  as 
well  go  along  with  your  father's  as  anywhere  else. 

Harper.  And  if  anybody  sees  a  bigger  Fourth 
of  July  than  we'll  have,  I'd  like  to  know  it,  that's 
all! 

Joe.  Three  cheers  for  Christopher  Columbus, 
and  the  whole  lot !  I  wish  'twas  Fourth  twice  a 
year,  I  do. 

Lucy.  We  haven't  got  ready  for  one  yet.  I'm 
going  to  make  this  a  good  one  first. 

Harper.  Three  cheers  for  Christopher  Colum- 
bus—  and  Lucy! 

Mr.  Smith.     Now,  to  bed. 


THEIR   FOURTH-OF-JULY   MONEY  21 

Joe.     It  cant  be  nine  o'clock. 

Mr.  Smith.     Look  at  the  clock  then. 

Lucy.  It's  dreadfully  nice.  I'd  like  to  sit  up  all 
night  and  study. 

Mr.  Smith.  Hold  out  to  the  end;  that's  what 
will  tell. 

SCENE    II 

For  two  days  all  the  children  studied  hard.  Then  Harper  be- 
came so  interested  in  a  trick  dog  that  he  forgot  to  study.  Lucy 
and  Joe  continued  to  study  most  of  their  spare  time,  but  when  the 
time  was  almost  up  Lucy  became  ill  with  measles  and  could  not 
use  her  eyes  to  read. 

Joe.  See  here,  Lucy,  Til  read  them  to  you  — 
every  one  of  the  questions,  you  know.  There, 
don't  cry.  And  then  you  can  learn  the  answers, 
and  say  them  over  and  over ;  and,  goodness  me  ! 
why,  you'll  learn  a  heap  that  way. 

Lucy.  I  can't ;  it'll  put  you  back  ;  you  might  be 
studying  all  the  while,  Joe.     Oh,  dear!  dear! 

Aunt  Nancy.  That's  very  true ;  and  that  wouldn't 
be  quite  right,  Lucy.  It's  all  the  same  a  good  thing 
in  you,  Joe,  to  want  to.  There  are  some  things 
better  than  prizes,  or  knowledge  even.  But  I'll 
read  to  you,  Lucy,  and  if  you  can  have  the  patience 
to  learn  that  way,  —  it  will  be  much  harder,  you 
know,  —  why,  perhaps  you'll  come  off  better  than 
you   think ;  who  knows  ? 


22  HOW   THE    LITTLE    SMITHS   GOT 

SCENE   III 

Time  :  Evening  of  the  third  of  July 

Lucy.  Of  course  I  don't  expect  any  prize ;  but  I 
know  a  little  something,  and  that's  nice.  But,  oh  ! 
to  think  of  Joe ! 

Mr.  Smith.     Where's  Harper? 

Harper  {dolefully).  Here,  under  the  table.  I 
don't  know  anything,  and  I'm  not  coming  out. 

Mr.  Smith.  I  shouldn't  think  you  did,  to  talk  in 
that  way.  Ah,  Harper,  my  boy,  play  is  pleasant 
enough  at  the  time,  but  I  tell  you  it  hurts  afterward ; 
that  is,  if  it's  all  play. 

\_Mr.  Smith  spends  an  hour  in  asking  the  children 
questions  in  history^ 

Aunt  Nancy.     And  now,  the  result. 

Mr.  Smith.  The  first  prize,  of  course,  belongs, 
without  doubt,  to  Joe ;  but  if  ever  a  prize  ought  to 
be  given  as  fairly  earned  under  difficulties,  there 
should  be  one  for  my  little  girl. 

\_He  gives  each  of  the  two  childre7i  a  brand-new  ten- 
dollar  bill^ 

Joe  {to  Lucy).  You  have  got  one  too !  Oh,  Lucy, 
do  look  and  see. 

Lucy  {lifting  the  bandage  off  her  eyes).  Have  \} 
Oh,  Joe,  I  have,  I  have. 

A2int  Nancy.    And  here  is  my  part  of  the  Fourth- 


THEIR   FOURTH-OF-JULY    MONEY  23 

of- J  Illy  pie  {rattling  down  a  shower  0/ silver  quarters). 
There  !  and  there  !  and  there  ! 

Joe-  The  Fourth  of  July  forever!  Three  cheers 
for  the  Eftcyclopedia  0/ Events  I'll  get! 

Lucy.  That's  no  better  than  the  histories  I'll 
have! 

Harper  (dismally).  And  I  shall  begin  now  for 
next  year.     Yes,  I  will. 

From  "  What  the  Seven  Did/'  by  Margaret  Sidney  (adapted). 


"Good  Evening,  my  Little  Dear" 


"  so-so " 


Characters  • 


Mother 

Joan,  the  daughter 
So-so,  the  pet  dog 
Old  Woman 


Mother.  Be  sure,  my  child,  that  you  always  do 
just  as  you  are  told. 

Joa7i.     Very  well,  mother. 

So-so.  Or,  at  any  rate,  do  what  will  do  just  as 
well. 

Joan.  You  darling !  What  a  dear,  kind  house- 
dog you  are ! 

Mother.  I  am  going  out  for  two  hours.  You  are 
too  young  to  protect  yourself  and  the  house,  and 
So-so  is  not  very  strong.  When  I  go,  shut  the  door 
and  bolt  the  big  wooden  bar,  and  be  sure  that  you 
do  not  open  it  for  any  reason  whatever  till  I  return. 
If  strangers  come.  So-so  may  bark  ;  then  they  will 
go  away.  With  this  summer's  savings  I  have  bought 
a  quilted  petticoat  for  you  and  a  cloak  for  myself, 
and  if  I  get  the  work  I  am  going  after  to-day,  I  shall 
buy  enough  wool  to  knit  warm  stockings  for  us 
both.  So  be  patient  till  I  return,  and  then  we  will 
have  the  plum  cake  that  is  in  the  cupboard  for  tea. 

Joa}i.     Thank  you,  mother. 

25 


26  "  so-so  " 

Mother.     Good-by,  my  child.      Be  sure  and   do 
just  as  I  have  told  you. 
Joan.     Very  well,  mother. 

\_Mother  goes  out,  and  Joan  bolts  the  door. 

Joan.  I  wish  mother  had  taken  us  with  her  and 
had  locked  the  house  and  put  the  key  in  her  big 
pocket,  as  she  has  done  before. 

So-so.     Yes,  it  would  have  done  just  as  well. 

Joan.  There  are  sixty  seconds  in  every  single 
minute.  So-so. 

So-so.      So  I  have  heard. 

Joan.  And  sixty  whole  minutes  in  every  hour, 
So-so. 

So-so.  You  don't  say  so !  [Snuffing  under  the 
house  door.)     The  air  smells  fresh. 

Joan.  It's  a  beautiful  day,  I  know.  I  wish 
mother  had  allowed  us  to  sit  on  the  doorstep.  We 
could  have  taken  care  of  the  house  — 

So-so.     Just  as  well. 

Joan  [looking  out  the  window).  It's  not  exactly 
what  mother   told    us  to  do,  hut    I   do  believe  — 

So-so.     It  would  do  just  as  well. 

\_Joan  unbolts  the  door  and  sits  on  the  doorstep^ 

Joan.  It  does  just  as  well,  and  better;  for  if  any 
one  comes,  we  can  see  him  coming  up  the  field 
path. 

So-so.     Just  so. 

Joan.     Oh!    there's   a   bird,   a   big   bird.     Dear 


"SO-SO"  27 

So-so,  can  you  see  him  ?  I  can't,  because  of  the 
sun.  What  a  queer  noise  he  makes!  Crake! 
crake  !  Oh,  I  can  see  him  now !  He  is  not  flying  ; 
he  is  running,  and  he  has  gone  into  the  corn.  I  do 
wish  I  were  in  the  corn.  1  would  catch  him,  and  put 
him  in  a  cage. 

So-so.     ril  catch  him. 

Joan.  No,  no!  You  are  not  to  go.  You  must 
stay  and  take  care  of  the  house,  and  bark  if  any  one 
comes. 

So-so.  You  could  scream,  and  that  would  do 
just  as  well. 

Joan.     No,  it  wouldn't. 

So-so,     Yes,  it  would. 

\While  they  are  disputing.,  an  old  woman  comes  to 
the  door.^ 

Old  Woman.  Good  evening,  my  little  dear,  are 
you  all  at  home  this  fine  evening } 

Joan.  Only  three  of  us :  I,  and  my  doll,  and 
So-so.  Mother  has  gone  to  the  town  on  business, 
and  we  are  taking  care  of  the  house,  but  So-so  wants 
to  go  after  the  bird  we  saw  run  into  the  corn. 

Old  Woman.  Was  it  a  pretty  bird,  my  little 
dear } 

Joan.  It  was  a  very  curious  one,  and  I  should 
like  to  go  after  it  myself,  but  we  can't  leave  the 
house. 

Old    Woman.     Dear,  dear  1     Is  there  no  neigh- 


28  "SO-SO" 

bor  who  would  sit  on  the  doorstep  for  you  and  keep 
the  house  till  you  just  slip  down  to  the  field  after 
the  curious  bird  ? 

Joan.  I'm  afraid  not.  Old  Martha,  our  neigh- 
bor, is  now  bedridden.  Of  course,  if  she  had  been 
able  to  mind  the  house  instead  of  us,  it  would  have 
done  just  as  well. 

Old  Wommi.  I  have  some  distance  to  go  this 
evening,  but  I  do  not  object  to  a  few  minutes'  rest ; 
•and  sooner  than  that  you  should  lose  the  bird,  I  will 
sit  on  the  doorstep  to  oblige  you,  while  you  run  down 
to  the  cornfield. 

Joan.  But  can  you  bark  if  any  one  comes  ?  For 
if  you  can't.  So-so  must  stay  with  you. 

Old  Woman.  I  can  call  you  and  the  dog  if  I  see 
any  one  coming,  and  that  will  do  just  as  well. 

Joan.     So  it  will. 

\_Joan  and  So-so  run  off  to  the  cornjield  ajid  stay  a 
considerable  time.^ 

Joan  [commg  up  the  path  to  the  house).  Why, 
So-so!  The  old  woman  has  gone!  But  I  dare  say 
mother  has  come  home.  I  hope  she  won't  think 
we  ought  to  have  stayed  in  the  house. 

So-so.  It  was  taken  care  of,  and  that  must  do 
just  as  well. 

Joan  {entering  the  house).  But,  So-so,  mother  isn't 
here!  And  look!  Oh,  dear!  Oh, dear!  what  will 
mother  say  ?     That  horrid  old  woman  has  taken  my 


"SO-SO"  29 

new  petticoat  and  mother's  new  cloak !  Oh,  dear 
me!  So-so,  you're  a  naughty,  naughty  dog.  You 
shouldn't  have  made  me  go  outdoors ! 

Mother  {e7itering  the  house).  Joan,  my  child,  why 
is  the  house  door  open  ?  Why,  what  is  the  trouble  ? 
Why  are  you  crying  ?     What  has  happened  ? 

Joan.  Oh,  m-m-mother  darling,  we've  been 
naughty.  So-so  teased  me  to  go  out  on  the  door- 
step, and  we  did,  and  a  horrid  old  woman  came, 
and  while  we  went  after  a  beautiful  bird  for  just  a 
very  little  time,  that  old  woman  —  oh,  mother  dear, 
she — she  stole  my  petticoat  —  my  new  petticoat  — 
and  your  new  cloak,  too  !  Oh,  mother,  mother,  I'm 
sorry,  I'm  sorry ! 

Mother.     For  the  future,  my  child,  I  hope    you 
will  always  do  just  as  you  are  told,  whatever  So-so 
may  say. 
Joan.     I  will,  I  will,  mother. 

From  "  So-so,"  by  Juliana  Horatia  Ewing  (adapted). 


Uo) 


Once  I  was  a  Real  Turtle" 


ALICE    IN    WONDERLAND 

f  Alice 
Characters  \  The  Gryphon 

[The  Mock  Turtle 

Gryphon.  Mock  Turtle,  this  here  young  lady, 
she  wants  for  to  know  your  history,  she  do. 

Mock  Turtle.  I'll  tell  it  to  her;  sit  down  both 
of  you,  and  don't  speak  a  word  till  I've  finished. 

Alice  {aside).  I  don't  see  how  he  can  ever  finish, 
if  he  doesn't  begin. 

Mock  Turtle.  Once  I  was  a  real  Turtle.  When 
we  were  little,  we  went  to  school  in  the  sea.  The 
master  was  an  old  Turtle  —  we  used  to  call  him 
Tortoise  — 

Alice.  Why  did  you  call  him  Tortoise,  if  he 
wasn't  one  ? 

Mock  Turtle.  We  called  him  Tortoise  because 
he  taught  us.     Really  you  are  very  dull ! 

Gryphon.  You  ought  to  be  ashamed  of  yourself 
for  asking  such  a  simple  question  !  Drive  on,  old 
fellow !     Don't  be  all  day  about  it ! 

Mock  Turtle.  Yes,  we  went  to  school  in  the  sea, 
though  you  mayn't  believe  it. 

Alice.     I  never  said  I  didn't ! 

Mock  Turtle.     You  did  ! 
31 


32  ALICE   IN  WONDERLAND 

Gryphon.     Hold  your  tongue  ! 

Mock  Ttirtle.  We  had  the  best  of  education  — 
in  fact,  we  went  to  school  every  day  — 

Alice.  I've  been  to  a  day  school,  too ;  you 
needn't  be  so  proud  as  all  that. 

Mock  Turtle.     With  extras  ? 

Alice.     Yes,  we  learned  French  and  music. 

Mock  Turtle.     And  washing? 

Alice  {indignantly).     Certainly  not ! 

Mock  Turtle.  Ah !  then  yours  wasn't  really  a 
good  school.  Now  at  ours  they  had  at  the  end  of 
the  bill,  "  French,  music,  and  washing  —  extra." 

Alice.  You  couldn't  have  wanted  it  much,  living 
at  the  bottom  of  the  sea. 

Mock  Turtle.  I  couldn't  afford  to  learn  it.  I 
only  took  the  regular  course. 

Alice.     What  was  that .? 

Mock  Turtle.  Reeling  and  Writhing,  of  course, 
to  begin  with  ;  and  then  the  different  branches  of 
Arithmetic, —  Ambition,  Distraction,  Uglification, 
and  Derision 

Alice.  I  never  heard  of  "  Uglification."  What  is 
it? 

Gryphon.  Never  heard  of  uglifying?  You  know 
what  to  beautify  is,  I  suppose  ? 

Alice  (doubtftilly).  Yes,  it  means —  to  —  make  — 
anything  — prettier. 

Gryphon.  Well,  then,  if  you  don't  know  what  to 
uglify  is,  you  are  a  simpleton. 


ALICE   IN   WONDERLAND  ;^^ 

Alice  {to  Mock  Turtle),  What  else  had  you  to 
learn  ? 

Mock  Turtle.  Well,  there  was  a  Mystery.  Mys- 
tery, ancient  and  modern,  with  Seaography.  Then 
Drawling  —  the  Drawling  master  was  an  old  con- 
ger-eel, that  used  to  come  once  a  week.  He  taught 
us  Drawling,  Stretching,  and  Fainting  in  Coils. 

Alice.     What  was  that  like  ? 

Mock  Turtle.  Well,  I  can't  show  it  to  you  my- 
self; I'm  too  stiff.  And  the  Gryphon  never  learned 
it. 

Gryphon.  Hadn't  time.  I  went  to  the  Classi- 
cal master,  though.  He  was  an  old  crab,  he 
was. 

Mock  Turtle.  I  never  went  to  him.  He  taught 
Laughing  and  Grief,  they  used  to  say. 

Gryphon.     So  he  did,  so  he  did. 

Alice.  And  how  many  hours  a  day  did  you  do 
lessons } 

Mock  Turtle.  Ten  hours  the  first  day,  nine  the 
next,  and  so  on. 

Alice.     What  a  curious  plan! 

Gryphon.  That's  the  reason  they're  called  les- 
sons, because  they  lessen  from  day  to  day. 

Alice.  Then  the  eleventh  day  must  have  been  a 
holiday ! 

Mock  Turtle.     Of  course  it  was. 

Alice  {eagerly).  And  how  did  you  manage  on 
the  twelfth  .? 

KN.    DRAM.    READ.  —  ^ 


34  ALICE   IN   WONDERLAND 

Grypho7i  [gruffly).  That's  enough  about  lessons. 
Tell  her  something  about  the  games,  now. 

Mock  Turtle.  You  may  not  have  lived  much 
under  the  sea,  and  perhaps  you  were  never  even  in- 
troduced to  a  Lobster,  so  you  can  have  no  idea  what 
a  delightful  thing  a  Lobster  Quadrille  is  ! 

Alice.  No,  indeed.  What  sort  of  a  dance  is 
it? 

Gryphon.  Why,  you  first  form  into  a  line  along 
the  seashore  — 

Mock  Turtle.  Two  lines!  Seals,  turtles,  salmon, 
and  so  on  ;  then  when  you've  cleared  all  the  jelly- 
fish out  of  the  way  — 

Gryphon.      That  generally  takes  some  time. 

Mock  Turtle.     You  advance  twice  — 

Gryphon.     Each  with  a  lobster  as  a  partner! 

Mock  Turtle.  Of  course,  advance  twice,  set  to 
partners  — 

Gryphon.  Change  lobsters  and  retire  in  the  same 
order. 

Mock  Turtle.     Then,  you  know,  you  throw  the  — 

Gryphon.     The  lobsters  ! 

Mock  Turtle.     As  far  out  to  sea  as  you  can  — 

Gryphon.     Swim  after  them  ! 

Mock  Turtle.     Turn  a  somersault  in  the  sea ! 

Gryphon.     Change  lobsters  again. 

Mock  Turtle.  Back  to  land  again,  and  —  that's 
all  the  first  fisfure. 

Alice.     It  must  be  a  very  pretty  dance ! 


ALICE   IN   WONDERLAND  35 

Mock  Turtle,     Would  you  like  to  see  a  little  of  it  ? 

Alice.      Very  nuich,  indeed. 

Mock  l^irtlc  {to  Gryphon).  Come,  let's  try  the 
first  figure.  We  can  do  it  without  lobsters,  you 
know.     Which  shall  sing  ? 

Gryphon.    Oh, you  sing.     I've  forgotten  the  words. 

\Thcy  dance,  and  Mock  Turtle  sings  the  following:^ 

"  Will  you  walk  a  little  faster  ?  "  said  a  whiting  to  a  snail. 

**  There's  a  porpoise  close  behind  us  and  he's  treading  on  my 

tail. 
See  how  eagerly  the  lobsters  and  the  turtles  all  advance ! 
They  are  waiting  on  the  shingle  —  will  you  come  and  join  the 

dance? 
Will  you,  won't  you,  will  you,  won't  you,  will  you  join  the  dance? 
Will  you,  won't  you,  will  you,  won't  you,  won't  you  join  the 

dance  ? 

"  You  can  really  have  no  notion  how  delightful  it  will  be 
When  they  take  us  up  and  throw  us,  with  the  lobsters,  out  to 

sea!" 
But  the   snail   replied,   "Too   far,  too  flir  !  "  and  gave  a  look 

askance  — 
Said  he  thanked  the  whiting  kindly,  but  he  would  not  join  the 

dance. 
Would  not,  could  not,  would  not,  could  not,  would  not  join  the 

dance. 
Would  not,  could  not,  would  not,  could  not,  could  not  join  the 

dance. 

Alice.  Thank  you,  it's  a  very  interesting  dance 
to  watch,  and  I  do  so  like  that  curious  song! 

From  "Alice  in  Wonderland,"  by  Lewis  Carroll  (adapted). 
Gryphon  —  grlf  on. 


A   MAD   TEA   PARTY 


Characters 


The  Hatter 
The  March  Hare 
The  Dormouse 
Alice 


There  was  a  table  set  out  under  a  tree  in  front  of  the  house, 
and  the  March  Hare  and  the  Hatter  were  having  tea  at  it.  A 
Dormouse  was  sitting  between  them  fast  asleep.  Alice  walked 
toward  them. 

Hatter.     No  room  !     No  room  ! 

Alice  {indignantly).     There  s  plenty  of  room. 

March  Hare.     Have  some  wine  } 

Alice.     I  don't  see  any  wine. 

March  Hare.     There  isn't  any. 

Alice.  Then  it  wasn't  very  civil  of  you  to  offer 
it. 

March  Hare.  It  wasn't  very  civil  of  you  to  sit 
clown  without  being  invited. 

Alice.  I  didn't  know  it  was  your  table.  It's 
laid  for  a  great  many  more  than  three. 

Hatter.     Your  hair  wants  cutting. 

Alice  {severely).  You  should  learn  not  to  make 
personal  comments;  it's  very  rude. 

Hatter.     Why  is  a  raven  like  a  writing  desk  .»* 

37 


38  A    MAD   TEA   PARTY 

Alice.     I  believe  I  can  guess  that. 

Hatter.  Do  yoii  mean  that  you  can  find  out  the 
answer  to  it  ? 

Alice.     Exactly  so. 

March  Hare.  Then  you  should  say  what  you 
mean. 

Alice.  I  do — at  least  —  at  least  I  mean  what  I 
say,  —  that's  the  same  thing,  you  know. 

Hatter.  Not  the  same  thing  a  bit !  Why,  you 
might  just  as  well  say  that  "  I  see  what  I  eat "  is  the 
same  thing  as  "  I  eat  what  I  see  " ! 

March  Hare.  You  might  just  as  well  say  that 
"  I  like  what  I  get "  is  the  same  thing  as  "  I  get 
what  I  like  "  ! 

Dormouse.  You  might  just  as  well  say  that  "  I 
breathe  when  I  sleep  "  is  the  same  thing  as  "  I  sleep 
when  I  breathe  !  " 

Hatter.  It  is  the  same  thing  with  you.  What 
day  of  the  month  is  it } 

Alice.     The  fourth. 

Hatter  {^sighing).  Two  days  wrong.  I  told  you 
butter  wouldn't  suit  the  works  [looking  angrily  at 
the  March  Hare). 

March  Hare  (meekly).     It  was  the  best  butter. 

Hatter.  Yes,  but  some  crumbs  must  have  got  in 
as  well ;  you  shouldn't  have  put  it  in  with  the  bread 
knife. 

March  Hare.     It  was  the  best  butter,  you  know. 

Alice    [looking  at   the   watch).     What    a   funny 


A   MAD   TEA   PARTY  39 

watch !  It  tells  the  day  of  the  month  and  doesn't 
tell  what  o'clock  it  is. 

Hatter  (muttering).  Why  should  it?  Does  your 
watch  tell  what  year  it  is  ? 

Alice.  Of  course  not;  but  that's  because  it  stays 
the  same  year  for  such  a  long  time  together. 

Hatter,     Which  is  just  the  case  with  mine. 

Alice  ^puzzled),     I  don't  quite  understand  you. 

Hatter,  The  Dormouse  is  asleep  again  [pouring 
a  little  hot  tea  on  its  nose). 

Dormouse  (with  eyes  shut).  Of  course,  of  course  ; 
just  what  I  was  going  to  remark  myself. 

Hatter  [to  Alice).  Have  you  guessed  the  riddle 
yet? 

Alice.     No,  I  give  it  up.     What's  the  answer? 

Hatter.     I  haven't  the  slightest  idea. 

March  Hare.     Nor  I. 

Alice  (siglmig  wearily).  I  think  you  might  do 
something  better  with  the  time  than  wasting  it  in 
asking  riddles  that  have  no  answers. 

Hatter.  If  you  knew  Time  as  well  as  I  do,  you 
wouldn't  talk  about  wasting  it.     It's  him. 

Alice.     I  don't  know  what  you  mean. 

Hatter.  Of  course  you  don't!  I  dare  say  you 
never  even  spoke  to  Time. 

Alice.  Perhaps  not,  but  I  know  I  have  to  beat 
time  when  I  learn  music. 

Hatter.  Ah !  that  accounts  for  it.  He  won't 
stand  beating.     Now  if  you  only  kept  on  good  terms 


40  A   MAD   TEA   PARTY 

with  him,  he'd  do  almost  anything  you  liked  with 
the  clock.  For  instance,  suppose  it  were  nine 
o'clock  in  the  morning,  just  time  to  begin  lessons. 
You'd  only  have  to  whisper  a  hint  to  Time,  and  round 
goes  the  clock  in  a  twinkling !  Half-past  one,  time 
for  dinner  ! 

March  Hare  (whispering).      I  only  wish  it  was. 

Alice.  That  would  be  grand,  certainly;  but  then 
—  I  shouldn't  be  hungry  for  it,  you  know. 

Hatter.  Not  at  first,  perhaps ;  but  you  could 
keep  it  to  half-past  one  as  long  as  you  liked. 

Alice.     Is  that  the  v^dij you  manage  } 

Hatter  {mournfully).  Not  I.  We  quarreled" last 
March  —  just  before  he  went  mad,  you  know  {point- 
ing to  the  March  Hare) ;  it  was  at  the  great  concert 
given  by  the  Queen  of  Hearts,  and  I  had  to  sing:  — 

"  Twinkle,  twinkle,  little  bat, 
How  I  wonder  what  you're  at." 

You  know  the  song,  perhaps  ? 

Alice.     I've  heard  something  like  it. 

Hatter.     It  goes  on,  you  know,  in  this  way  :  — 

"  Up  above  the  world  you  fly, 
Like  a  tea  tray  in  the  sky." 

Well,  I'd  hardly  finished  the  first  verse,  when  the 
Queen  bawled  out :  "  He's  murdering  the  time  !  Off 
with  his  head  !  " 

Alice.      How  dreadfully  savage  ! 


A   MAD   TEA    PARTY  41 

Hatter.  And  ever  since  tliat  he  won't  do  a  thing 
I  ask.     It's  always  six  o'clock  now, 

Alice.  Is  that  the  reason  so  many  tea  things  are 
put  out  here  ? 

Hatter.  Yes,  that's  it ;  it's  always  tea  time,  and 
we've  no  time  to  wash  the  things  between  whiles. 

Alice.     Then  you  keep  moving  round,  I  suppose. 

Hatter.     Exactly  so,  —  as  the  things  get  used  up. 

Alice.  But  when  you  come  to  the  beginning 
again  } 

March  Hare.  Suppose  we  change  the  subject. 
I'm  getting  tired  of  this.  I  vote  the  young  lady  tells 
us  a  story. 

Alice.     I'm  afraid  I  don't  know  one. 

March  Hare.  Then  the  Dormouse  shall  !  Wake 
up.  Dormouse  ! 

Dormouse  {slowly  opening  his  eyes).  I  wasn't 
asleep.    I  heard  every  word  you  fellows  were  saying. 

March  Hare.     Tell  us  a  story ! 

Alice.     Yes,  please  do  ! 

Hatter.  And  be  quick  about  it,  or  you'll  be 
asleep  before  it's  done. 

Dormouse.  Once  upon  a  time  there  were  three 
little  sisters,  and  their  names  were  Elsie,  Lacie,  and 
Tillie  ;  and  they  lived  at  the  bottom  of  a  well. 

Alice.     What  did  they  live  on  ? 

Dormouse.     They  lived  on  treacle. 

Alice.  They  couldn't  have  done  that,  you  know  ; 
they'd  have  been  ill. 


42  A   MAD   TEA   PARTY 

Dormouse.     So  they  were, —  very  ill. 

Alice.  But  why  did  they  live  at  the  bottom  of  a 
well  ? 

March  Hare.     Take  some  more  tea. 

Alice  {offended).  I've  had  nothing  yet,  so  I  can't 
take  more. 

Hatter.  You  mean,  you  can't  take  less.  It's 
very  easy  to  take  more  than  nothing. 

Alice.     Nobody  asked  jj/<9/^r  opinion. 

Hatter  {triumphantly).  Who's  making  personal 
remarks  now^  1 

Alice  {to  the  Dormouse).  Why  did  they  live  at 
the  bottom  of  a  well  ? 

Dormouse.     It  was  a  treacle  well. 

Alice  {angrily).     There's  no  such  — 

March  Hare  and  Hatter.     Sh  !     Sh  ! 

Dormouse.  If  you  can't  be  civil,  you'd  better 
finish  the  story  yourself. 

Alice  {humbly).  No,  please  go  on.  I  won't 
interrupt  you  again.  I  dare  say  there  may  be 
one. 

Dormouse  {indignantly).  One,  indeed  !  And,  so 
these  three  sisters,  —  they  were  learning  to  draw, 
you  know  — 

Alice.     What  did  they  draw  ? 

Dormouse.     Treacle. 

Hatter  {interrupting).  I  want  a  clean  cup ;  let's 
all  move  one  place  on, 

\^Each  moves  on  one  place ^ 


A   MAD   TEA    PARTY  43 

Alice  {cautiously).  But '  I  don't  understand. 
Where  did  they  draw  the  treacle  from? 

Hatter.  You  can  draw  water  out  of  a  water- 
well  ;  so  I  think  you  could  draw  treacle  out  of  a 
treacle-well,  —  eh,  stupid? 

Alice.     But  they  were  in  the  well. 

Dormouse.  Of  course  they  were  —  well  in. 
They  were"  learning  to  draw,  and  they  drew  all 
manner  of  things,  —  everything  that  begins  with 
an  M  — 

Alice.     Why  with  an  M  ? 

March  Hare.     Why  not  ? 

Dormouse  (sleepily).  That  begins  with  an  M, 
such  as  mouse  traps,  and  the  moon,  and  memory 
—  and  muchness;  you  know  you  say  things  are 
"much  of  a  muchness."  Did  you  ever  see  such 
a  thing  as  a  drawing  of  a  muchness  ? 

Alice  (confused).  Really,  now  you  ask  me,  I 
don't  think  — 

Hatter.     Then  you  shouldn't  talk. 

Alice  (walHng  ojf  in  great  disgust).  At  any  rate 
I'll  never  go  there  again !  It's  the  stupidest  tea 
party  I  was  ever  at  in  all  my  life. 

From  "Alice  in  Wonderland,"  by  Lewis  Carroll  (adapted). 


PlAMOND  AND  THE  NORTH  WiND 


DIAMOND  AND  THE  NORTH 
WIND 

Diamond's  father  was  a  coachman,  who  lived  with  his  wife  and 
little  son  in  a  few  rooms  over  the  coach  house.  Diamond  slept 
in  the  loft  over  the  horses'  stalls.  One  very  windy  night  the  little 
boy  had  crept  out  of  bed  many  times  to  stuff  paper  into  a  wide 
chink  between  the  boards  near  his  bed.  Suddenly  he  felt  sure  he 
heard  a  voice  close  to  his  ear.  He  felt  about  with  his  hand  and 
found  a  corner  of  the  paper  loosened  from  the  chink.  He  put 
his  ear  to  the  opening,  and  then  he  heard  the  voice  distinctly. 

SCENE   I 

f  North  Wind 
Characters  \  Diamond 

I  Diamond's  Mother 

North  Wind.  What  do  you  mean,  little  boy  — 
closing  up  my  window  '^. 

Diamond.     What  window  '^. 

No7Hh  Wind.  You  stuffed  hay  into  it  three 
times  last  night.  I  had  to  blow  it  out  three 
times. 

Diamond.  You  can't  mean  this  little  hole!  It 
isn't  a  window ;  it's  a  hole  in  the  wall  over  my  bed. 

North  Wind.  I  did  not  mean  to  say  it  was  a 
window ;   I  said  it  was  my  window. 

45 


46  DIAMOND   AND   THE   NORTH   WIND 

Diamond.  But  it  can't  be  a  windpw,  because 
windows  are  holes  to  see  out  of. 

North  Wind.  Well,  that's  just  what  I  made  this 
window  for. 

Diamond.  But  you  are  outside ;  you  can't  want 
a  window\ 

North  Wind.  You  are  quite  mistaken.  Win- 
dows are  to  see  out  of,  you  say.  Well,  I'm  in  my 
house,  and  I  want  windows  to  see  out  of  it. 

Diamond.  But  you've  made  a  window  into  my 
bed. 

North  Wind.  Well,  your  mother  has  got  three 
windows  into  my  dancing  room,  and  you  have 
three  into  my  garret. 

Diamond.  But  I  heard  father  say,  when  my 
mother  wanted  him  to  make  a  window  through  the 
wall,  that  it  was  against  the  law,  for  it  would  look 
into  Mr.  Dyves'  garden. 

North  Wind  [iaughing).  The  law  would  have 
some  trouble  to  catch  me  ! 

Diamond.  But  it's  not  right,  you  know;  that's 
no  matter.     You  shouldn't  do  it. 

North  Wind.  I  am  so  tall  I  am  above  that 
law. 

Diamond.     You  must  have  a  tall  house,  then. 

North  Wind.  Yes ;  a  tall  house  ;  the  clouds  are 
inside  it. 

Diamo7id.  Dear  me!  I  think,  then,  you  can 
hardly  expect  me  to  keep  a  window  in  my  bed  for 


DIAMOND   AND   THE   NORTH   WIND  47 

you.  Why  don't  you  make  a  window  into  Mr. 
Dy  ves'  bed  ? 

North  Wind  (sadly).  Nobody  makes  a  window 
into  an  ash  pit.  I  like  to  see  nice  things  out  of  my 
windows. 

Diamond.  But  he  must  have  a  nicer  bed  than  I 
have,  though  mine  is  very  x\\q.^  —  so  nice  that  I 
couldn't  wish  it  better. 

North  Wind.  It's  not  the  bed  I  care  about ;  it's 
what  is  in  it.      But  you  just  open  that  window. 

Diamond.  Well,  mother  says  I  shouldn't  be  dis- 
obliging; but  it's  rather  hard.  -You  see  the  North 
Wind  will  blow  right  in  my  face  if  I  do. 

North  Wind.     I  am  the  North  Wind. 

Diamond.  0-o-oh  !  Then  will  you  promise  not 
to  blow  on  my  face  if  I  open  your  window } 

North  Wind.     I  can't  promise  that. 

Diamond.  But  you'll  give  me  the  toothache. 
Mother's  got  it  already. 

North  Wind.  But  what's  to  become  of  me  with- 
out a  window } 

Diamond.  I'm  sure  I  don't  know.  All  I  say 
is,  it  will  be  worse  for  me  than  for  you. 

North  Wind.  No,  it  will  not.  You  shall  not  be 
the  worse  for  it  —  I  promise  you  that.  You  will 
be  much  the  better  for  it.  Just  you  believe  what  I 
say,  and  do  as  I  tell  you. 

Diamond.  W^ell,  I  can  pull  the  clothes  over  my 
head. 


48  DIAMOND    AND   THE   NORTH    WIND 

\_Dianiond pulls  out  the  paper^  scrambles   back  into 
bed^  and  covers  his  head  with  the  bedclothes?^ 

North  Wind.     What  is  your  name,  little  bo}^  ? 

Diamo7zd.      Diamond. 

North  Wind.     What  a  funny  name  ! 

Diamond  (vexed).      It's  a  very  nice  name. 

North  Wind.      I  don't  know  that. 

Diamond.     Well,  I  do. 

A^orth  Wind.  I  suppose  I  must  not  be  angry 
with  you ;  but  you  had  better  look  and  see  whom 
you  are  talking  to.  • 

Diamond.     W^ell,  Diamond  is  a  very  pretty  name. 

North  Wind.  Diamond  is  a  useless  thing, 
rather. 

Diamond.  That's  not  true.  My  father's  horse 
is  named  Diamond,  too  ;  and  he's  very  nice  —  as  big 
as  two  —  and  so  quiet  all  night!  And  doesn't  he 
make  a  jolly  row  in  the  morning,  getting  up  on  his 
four  legs  !     It's  like  thunder. 

North  Wind.  You  don't  seem  to  know  what  a 
diamond  is. 

Diamond.  Oh,  don't  I !  Diamond  is  a  great 
and  good  horse  ;  and  he  sleeps  right  under  me.  He 
is  Old  Diamond,  and  I  am  Young  Diamond ;  or,  if 
you  like  it  better,  for  you're  very  particular,  Mr. 
North  Wind,  he's  Big  Diamond  and  I'm  Little 
Diamond;  and  I  don't  know  which  of  us  my  father 
likes  best. 


DIAMOND    AND   THE    NORTH   WIND  49 

North  Wind  {laughing).  I'm  not  Mr.  North 
Wind. 

Diamond.  You  told  me  that  you  were  the  North 
Wind. 

North  Wind.     I  did  not  say  Mister  North  Wind. 

Diamond.  Well,  then,  I  do  ;  for  mother  tells  me 
I  ought  to  be  polite. 

North  Wind.  Then  let  me  tell  you  I  don't  think 
it  at  all  polite  of  you  to  say  Mister  to  me. 

Diamond.  Well,  I  didn't  know  any  better.  I'm 
very  sorry. 

North  Wind.     But  you  ought  to  know  better. 

Diamond.     I  don't  know  that. 

North  Wind.  I  do.  You  can't  say  it's  polite  to 
lie  there  talking  —  with  your  head  under  the  bed- 
clothes, and  never  look  up  to  see  what  kind  of 
person  you  are  talking  to.  I  want  you  to  come 
out  with  me. 

Diamond  {almost  crying).      I  want  to  go  to  sleep. 

North  Wind.  You  shall  sleep  all  the  better 
to-morrow  night. 

Diamond.  Besides,  you  are  out  in  Mr.  Dyves' 
garden,  and  I  can't  get  there.  I  can  only  get  into 
our  own  yard. 

North  Wind  {half  angrily).  Will  you  take  your 
head  out  of  the  bedclothes .? 

Diamon  d  {half frigh  tened) .     No! 
\_A   tremendous  blast  of  wi^id  wrenches  off  a  boai^d 

of  the  wall  and  siveeps  the  clothes  off  Diam^ond^ 

KN.    DRAM.    KKAU.  —  4 


50  DIAMOND   AND   THE   NORTH   WIND 

North  Wind.  Will  you  go  with  me  now,  you 
little  Diamond  ?  I  am  sorry  I  was  forced  to  be  so 
rough  with  you. 

Diamond.  I  will ;  yes,  I  will.  But  how  shall  I 
get  my  clothes  ?  They  are  in  mother's  room  and 
the  door  is  locked. 

North  Wind.  Oh,  never  mind  your  clothes. 
You  will  not  be  cold.  I  shall  take  care  of  that. 
Nobody  is  cold  with  the  North  Wind. 

Diamond.     I  thought  everybody  was. 

North  Wind.  That  is  a  great  mistake.  Most 
people  make  it,  however.  They  are  cold  because 
they  are  not  with  the  North  Wind,  but  without  it. 
Follow  me.     You're  not  afraid,  are  you  } 

Diamond.  No,  ma'am  ;  but  mother  never  would 
let  me  go  out  without  shoes. 

North  Wind.  I  know  your  mother  very  well.  I 
have  visited  her  often.  I  know  all  about  you  and 
your  mother.  Now,  you're  not  to  call  me  mdam. 
You  must  call  me  just  my  own  name  —  respect- 
fully, you  know  —  just  North  Wind. 

Diamond.  Well,  North  Wind,  you  are  so  beauti- 
ful, I  am  quite  ready  to  go  with  you. 

North  Wind.  You  must  not  be  ready  to  go  with 
everything  beautiful  all  at  once.  Diamond. 

Diamond.  But  what's  beautiful  can't  be  bad. 
You're  not  bad.  North  Wind. 

North  Wind.  No,  I'm  not  bad.  But  some- 
times beautiful  things  grow  bad  by  doing  bad,  and 


DIAMOND   AND   THE    NORTH   WIND  51 

it  takes  some  time  for  their  badness  to  spoil  their 
beauty. 

Diamond.  Well,  I  will  go  with  you  because  you 
are  beautiful  and -good,  too. 

North  Wind.  But  there's  another  thing,  Dia- 
mond. What  if  I  should  look  ugly  myself  because 
I  am  making  ugly  things  beautiful?  What,  then? 
If  you  see  me  with  my  face  all  black,  don't  be 
frightened.  If  you  see  me  flapping  wings  like  a 
bat's,  as  big  as  the  whole  sky,  don't  be  frightened. 
If  you  hear  me  raging  ten  times  worse  than  Mrs. 
Bill,  the  blacksmith's  wife  —  even  if  you  see  me 
looking  in  at  people's  windows  —  you  must  believe 
that  I  am  doing  my  work.  If  you  keep  a  good  hold 
of  my  hand,  you  will  know  who  I  am  all  the  time, 
even  when  you  look  at  me  and  can't  see  me  the 
least  bit  like  the  North  Wind.  Do  you  under- 
stand ? 

Diamo7id.     Quite  well. 

North  Wind.     Come  along,  then. 

\_Diamo7id  creeps  out  of  bed  and  follows  North 
Wind.  Suddenly  he  loses  sight  of  her  and  finds 
himself  standijig  in  his  bare  feet  on  the  paving 
stones  of  the  yard^ 

Mother,  Diamond  !  Diamond !  W^here  are  you, 
Diamond  ? 

Diamond.     Here,  mother. 
Mother,     Where,  Diamond? 


52  DIAMOND   AND   THE   NORTH   WIND 

Diamond.     Out  in  the  yard,  mother. 
Mother.     Why,  child,  come  into  the  house  quick; 
you've  been  walking  in  your  sleep ! 


SCENE    II 

One  hot  evening  Diamond  sat  in  the  siiminerhouse,  looking  at 
a  bed  of  gay  tuHps.  All  at  once  he  saw  a  great  bumblebee  fly 
out  from  one  of  the  blossoms. 

Diamond 
North  Wind 
St.  Peter 
Characters  <  St.   Matthew 
St.  Thomas 
St.  Luke 
Gardener 

North  Wind.  There !  that  is  something  done. 
I  thought  he  would  have  to  stay  there  all  night, 
poor  fellow! 

Diamond  {seeing  nothing  but  the  tiniest  C7xature 
sliding  down  the  stem  of  the  tulip).  And  are  you 
the  fairy  that  herds  the  bees  '^. 

North  Wind.     I'm  not  a  fairy. 

Diamond.     How  do  yon  know  that.f* 

North  Wind.  It  would  become  you  better  to 
ask  how  you  are  to  know  it. 

Diamond.     You've  just  told  me. 

North  Wind.  Yes,  but  what's  the  use  of  know- 
ing a  thing  only  because  you're  told  it  .f* 


DIAMOND    AND   THE    NORTH   WIND  53 

Diamo7id,  Well,  how  am  I  to  know  you  are  not 
a  fairy?     You  do  look  very  like  one. 

North  Wind.  In  the  first  place,  fairies  are  much 
bigger  than  you  see  me. 

Diamond.     Oh,  I   thought  they  were  very  little. 

North  Wind.  But  they  might  be  tremendously 
bigger  than  I  am,  and  yet  not  be  very  big.  Why,  I 
could  be  six  times  the  size  I  am,  and  not  be  very 
huge.  You  stupid  Diamond !  have  you  never  seen 
me  before  t 

Diamond  (knowing  in  a  moment  that  it  is  North 
Wind).  I  am  very  stupid  ;  but  I  never  saw  you  so 
small  before.  How  could  I  think  it  was  you  taking 
care  of  a  great  stupid  bumblebee  '^. 

North  Wind.  The  more  stupid  he  was,  the  more 
need  he  had  to  be  taken  care  of.  What  with  suck- 
ing honey  and  trying  to  open  the  door,  he  was 
nearly  dazed ;  and  when  it  opened  in  the  morning 
to  let  the  sun  see  the  tulip's  heart,  what  vvould  the 
sun  have  thought  to  find  such  a  stupid  thing  lying 
there  —  with  wings,  too  ? 

Diamond.  But  how  do  you  have  time  to  look 
after  bees  ? 

North  Wind.  I  don't  look  after  bees.  I  had 
this  one  to  look  after.     It  was  hard  work,  though. 

Diamond.  Hard  work  !  Why,  you  could  blow  a 
chimney  down,  or  —  or  —  a  boy  s  cap  off. 

North  Wind.  Both  are  easier  than  to  blow  a 
tulip  open.     But  I  scarcely  know  the  difference  be- 


54  DIAMOND   AND   THE    NORTH   WIND 

tween  hard  2ind  easy.  I  am  always  able  for  what  I 
have  to  do.  When  I  see  my  work,  I  just  rush  at  it 
—  and  it  is  done.  But  I  mustn't  chatter.  I  have 
to  sink  a  ship  to-night. 

Diamo7id.     Sink  a  ship  !     What !  with  men  in  it  .^^ 

North  Wind.     Yes,  and  women,  too. 

Diamond.  How  dreadful !  I  wish  you  wouldn't 
talk  so. 

North  Wind.  It  is  rather  dreadful.  But  it  is 
my  work.      I  must  do  it. 

Diamond.  I  hope  you  won't  ask  me  to  go  with 
you. 

North  Wind.  No,  I  won't  ask  you.  But  you 
must  come  for  all  that. 

Diamond.      I  won't. 

North  Wind  {looking  at  him  kindly).  Won't 
you  ? 

Diamond.     Yes,  I  will!     You  cannot  be  cruel. 

North  Wind.  No,  I  can  do  nothing  cruel,  al- 
though I  often  do  what  looks  like  cruel  to  those  who 
do  not  know  what  I  really  am  doing.  The  people 
they  say  I  drown,  I  only  carry  away  to  —  to  —  to  — 
well,  the  back  of  the  North  Wind  —  that  is  what 
they  used  to  call  it  long  ago,  only  /  never  saw  the 
place. 

Diamond.  How  can  you  carry  them  there  if  you 
never  saw  it  .-^ 

North  Wind.     I  know  the  way. 

Diamond.     But  how  is  it  you  never  saw  \\.} 


DIAMOND    AND   THE   NORTH    WIND  55 

North  Wi7id,     Because  it  is  behind  me. 

Diamond,     But  you  can  look  around. 

North  Wind.  Not  far  enough  to  see  my  own 
back.  No,  I  always  look  before  me.  In  fact,  I  am 
quite  blind  and  deaf  when  I  try  to  see  my  back.  I 
only  mind  my  work. 

Diamond.     But  how  is  it  your  work  ? 

North  Wind.  That  I  can't  tell  you.  I  only 
know  it  is,  because  when  I  do  it  I  feel  all  right,  and 
when  I  don't  I  feel  all  wrong.  East  Wind  says  — 
only  one  does  not  exactly  know  how  much  to  be- 
lieve of  what  she  says  —  East  Wind  says  it  is  all 
managed  by  a  baby  ;  but  I  don't  know.  I  just  stick 
to  my  work.  It  is  all  one  to  me  to  let  a  bee  out  of 
a  tulip,  or  to  sweep  the  cobwebs  from  the  sky. 
You  would  like  to  go  with  me  to-night  '^. 

Diamond.     I  don't  want  to  see  a  ship  sunk. 

North  Wind.     But  suppose  I  had  to  take  you  t 

Diamond.     Why,  then,  of  course  I  must  go. 

North  Wind.  There's  a  good  Diamond.  Come, 
I'm  waiting  for  you. 

\_The  North   Wind  lifts  Diamond  gently  and  flies 
away  with  him.^ 

Diamond  {fearfully).  Oh,  the  wind  looks  so 
dreadful,  and  it  pushes  me  about  so ! 

North  Wind.  Yes,  it  does,  my  dear.  That  is 
what  it  was  sent  for.  But  I  will  keep  you  in  front 
of  me.     You  will  feel  the  wind,  but  not  too  much. 


56  DIAMOND    AND   THE   NORTH   WIND 

I  shall  want  only  one  arm  to  take  care  of  you ;  the 
other  will  be  quite  enough  to  sink  the  ship. 

Diamond.  Oh,  dear  North  Wind !  how  can  you 
talk  so  ? 

North  Wind.     I  never  talk.     I  mean  what  I  say. 

Diamond,  Then  do  you  mean  to  sink  the  ship 
with  the  other  hand  1 

North  Wind.     Yes. 

Diamond.     It's  not  like  you. 

North  Wind.      How  do  you  know  that? 

Diamond.  Quite  easily.  Here  you  are  taking 
care  of  a  little  boy  with  one  arm,  and  there  you  are 
sinking  a  ship  with  the  other.  It  can't  be  like  you. 
I  can't  believe  it.  I  don't  believe  it.  I  won't  be- 
lieve it.  How  could  you  put  on  such  a  beautiful 
face  if  you  did  not  love  all  people  ?  You  may  sink 
as  many  ships  as  you  like,  and  I  won't  say  another 
word.     I  can't  say  I  shall  like  to  see  it,  you  know. 

North  Wind.     That's  quite  another  thing. 

Diamond  (thinking  it  seems  very  quiet).  Is  the 
storm  over.  North  Wind  } 

North  Wind.  No.  I  am  only  waiting  a  mo- 
ment to  set  you  down.  You  would  not  like  to  see 
the  ship  sunk,  and  I  am  going  to  give  you  a  place 
to  stop  in  till  I  come  back  for  you. 

Diamond.  Oh,  thank  you.  I  shall  be  sorry  to 
leave  you.  North  Wind,  but  I  would  rather  not  see 
the  ship  go  down.  And  I'm  afraid  the  poor  people 
will  cry,  and  I  should  hear  them.     Oh,  dear! 


DIAMOND    AND    TUK    NORTH    WIND  57 

North  Wind.  There  arc  a  good  many  passen- 
gers on  board ;  and,  to  tell  the  truth,  Diamond,  I 
don't  care  about  your  hearing  the  cry  you  speak  of. 
I  am  afraid  you  would  not  get  it  out  of  your  little 
head  again  for  a  long  time. 

Diamond,  Bjt  how  can  you  bear  it,  then.  North 
Wind  ?  For  I  am  sure  you  are  kind.  I  shall  never 
doubt  that  again. 

North  Wind.  I  will  tell  you  how  I  am  able  to 
bear  it.  Diamond.  I  am  always  hearing  —  through 
every  noise,  through  all  the  noise  I  am  making  my- 
self, even  —  the  sound  of  a  far-off  song.  I  do  not 
exactly  know  where  it  is,  or  what  it  means;  and  I 
don't  hear  much  of  it;  but  what  I  do  hear  is  quite 
enough  to  make  me  able  to  bear  the  cry  from  the 
sinking  ship.     So  it  would  you  if  you  could  hear  it. 

Diamond.  No,  it  wouldn't.  For  they  wouldn't 
hear  the  music  of  the  far-away  song;  and  if  they 
did,  it  wouldn't  do  them  any  good.  You  see,  you 
and  I  are  not  going  to  be  drowned,  and  so  ive  might 
enjoy  it. 

N^orth  Wind.  But  you  never  heard  the  psalm, 
and  you  don't  know  what  it  is  like.  Somehow  — 
I  can't  say  how  —  it  tells  me  that  all  is  right. 

Diamond.  But  that  won't  do  them  any  good  — 
the  people,  I  mean. 

North  Wind.  It  must !  It  must !  It  wouldn't 
be  the  song  it  seems  to  be  if  it  did  not  sw^allow  up 
all  their  fear  and  pain,  too,  and  set  them  singing  it 


58  DIAMOND   AND   THE    NORTH   WIND 

themselves  with  the  rest.     I  am  sure  it  will.     But 
this  will  never  do.     Will  you  stop  here  .^^ 

Diamond,     I  can't  see  anywhere  to  stop. 

North  lVi7id.     Look,  then. 

[_Witk  one  great  sweep  of  her  right  arm  North 
Wind  brushes  azvay  the  great  curtain  of  dark- 
ness^ and  Diamond  sees  the  gray  towers  of  a 
cathedral^ 

Diamond  (terrified).     Oh!  what's  that? 

North  Wind,  A  very  good  place  for  you  to  wait 
in.  But  we  shall  go  in,  and  you  shall  judge  for 
yourself. 

\_North   Wijid  sets  Diamond  down  upon  a  narrow 
gallery  high  up  inside  the  cathedral^ 

North  Wind.  What  are  you  trembling  for,  little 
Diamond } 

Diamond.  I  am  afraid  of  falling  down  there.  It 
is  so  deep  down. 

North  Wind.  Yes,  rather,  but  you  were  a  hun- 
dred times  higher  a  few  minutes  ago. 

Diamond.  Yes,  but  I'm  walking  on  my  own 
legs,  and  they  might  slip. 

North  Wind.  But  I  have  a  hold  of  you,  I  tell 
you,  foolish  child. 

Diamond,  Yes,  but  somehow  I  can't  feel  com- 
fortable. 

North  Wind.  If  you  were  to  fall,  and  my  hold 
of  you  were  to  give  way,  I  should  be  down  after  you 


DIAMOND   AND   THE   NORTH  WIND  59 

in  a  less  moment  than  a  lady's  watch  can  tick,  and 
catch  you  long  before  you  reached  the  ground. 

Diamond,  I  don't  like  it,  though.  {Screaming.) 
Oh  !  oh  !  oh !    Why  have  you  left  me,  North  Wind  } 

North  Wind,  Because  I  want  you  to  walk  alone 
and  try  to  be  brave.  And  I  really  must  be  going 
about  my  work. 

Diamo7id,  Oh,  the  poor  ship !  I  wish  you  would 
stay  here,  and  let  the  poor  ship  go. 

North  Wind,  That  I  dare  not  do.  Will  you 
stay  here  till   I  come  back  ? 

Diamond,     Yes.     You  won't  be  long } 

North  Wind,  Not  longer  than  I  can  help.  Trust 
me,  you  shall  get  home  before  the  morning. 

\l7i  a  moment  North  Wind  has  gone,  and  Diamond 
hears  a  great  roaring  of  wind  about  the  church. 
He  feels  his  way  down  the  stairs  and  lies  down 
on  the  steps  of  the  chancel,  facing  the  big  stained- 
glass  windozvs^Just  noiv  beautifully  lighted  by 
the  moo7i.  These  windows  have  large  pictures 
of  the  Apostles  in  stained  glass, ~\ 

St.  Matthew,  How  comes  he  to  be  lying  there, 
St.  Peter.? 

St.  Peter,  I  think  I  saw  him  awhile  ago  up  in 
the  gallery,  under  the  Nicodemus  window.  Perhaps 
he  has  fallen  down.  What  do  you  think,  St. 
Matthew  ? 

St.  Matthew.     I  don't  think  he  could  have  crept 


6o  DIAMOND   AND   THE   NORTH  WIND 

here  after  falling  from  such  a  height.  He  must 
have  been  killed. 

S^.  Peter.  What  are  we  to  do  with  him  ?  We 
can't  leave  him  lying  there.  And  we  could  not 
make  him  comfortable  up  here  in  the  wandow;  it's 
rather  crowded  already.  What  do  you  say,  St. 
Thomas } 

St.  Thomas.     Let's  go  down  and  look  at  him. 

St.  Matthew.  What  is  the  matter  with  him,  St. 
Luke  -> 

St.  Luke.  There's  nothing  the  matter  with  him. 
He's  in  a  sound  sleep. 

6"/.  Thomas.  I  have  it.  This  is  one  of  North 
Wind's  tricks.  She  has  caught  him  up  and  dropped 
him  at  our  door,  like  a  withered  leaf.  I  don't  un- 
derstand that  woman's  conduct,  I  must  say. 

St.  Luke.  She  should  consider  that  a  church  is 
not  a  place  for  pranks,  not  to  mention  that  we  live 
in  it. 

St.  Peter.  It  certainly  is  disrespectful  of  her. 
But  she  always  is  disrespectful.  What  right  has 
she  to  bang  at  our  windows  as  she  has  been  doing 
the  whole  of  this  night }  I  dare  say  there  is  glass 
broken  somewhere.  I  know  my  blue  robe  is  in  a 
dreadful  mess  with  the  rain  first  and  the  dust  after. 
It  will  cost  me  shillings  to  clean  it. 

Diamond.  North  Wind  knows  best  what  she  is 
about.  She  has  a  good  right  to  blow  the  cobwebs 
from  your  windows,  for  she  was  sent  to  do  it.     She 


DIAMOND    AM)     rHE   NORTH   WIND  6i 

sweeps  them  away  from   grander  places,  I  can  tell 
you,  for  I've  been  with  her  at  it. 

l^Jiist  as  Diamond  says  the  last  words,  he  awakes 
and  finds  that  he  has  been  asleep  in  the  summer- 
house.^ 

Gardener,  Hallo,  little  man!  What  woke  you 
out  of  your  nap  ? 

Diamond.  Because  the  sham  Apostles  talked 
such  nonsense,  they  waked  me  up. 

Gardener  {staring  at  him).  You  must  have  been 
dreaming.  But  look  here.  See  how  the  North 
Wind  is  breaking  off  the  branches  of  this  tree. 
What  a  pity !  I  wish  we  lived  at  the  back  of  it,  I'm 
sure. 

Diamond,  Where  is  that  ?  I  never  heard  of  the 
place. 

Gardener.  I  dare  say  not,  but  if  this  tree  had 
been  there,  it  would  not  have  had  its  branches  broken, 
for  there  is  no  wind  there. 

Diamond  {to  himself).  I  will  ask  North  Wind 
next  time  I  see  her  to  take  me  to  that  country.  I 
think  she  did  speak  about  it  once  before. 

From  "At  the  Back  of  the  North  Wind,"  by  George  Macdonald 
(adapted). 


(62) 


Maggie  and  the  Leader  of  the  Gypsies 


MAGGIE     TULLIVER'S      VISIT     TO 
THE   GYPSIES 

Maggie  Tulliver  was  so  vexed  with  her  brother  Tom  that  she 
had  decided  that  she  would  run  away  to  the  gypsies,  and  that  Tom 
should  never  see  her  again.  She  thought  of  her  father  as  she  ran 
along,  and  she  decided  to  send  him  a  letter  by  a  small  gypsy,  tell- 
ing him  that  she  was  well  and  happy.  Suddenly,  as  she  passed  a 
bend  in  the  road,  she  came  upon  the  gypsy  tents.  A  young  woman 
with  a  baby  in  her  arm  walked  to  meet  her. 


Characters 


Old  Gypsy  (woman) 
Young  Gypsy  (  woman  ) 
Leader  of  the  Gypsies  (  man  ) 
Maggie  Tulliver 
Mr.  Tulliver 


Young  Gypsy.  My  little  lady,  where  are  you 
going  to  } 

Maggie.  Not  any  farther;  I've  come  to  stay  with 
yoM,  please. 

Young  Gypsy.  That's  pretty  ;  come,  then.  Why, 
what  a  nice  little  lady  you  are,  to  be  sure!  {Taking 
Maggie  up  to  the  fire  where  the  other  gypsies  are.) 

Old  Gypsy.  What,  my  pretty  lady,  are  you  come 
to  stay  with  us }  Sit  ye  down,  and  tell  us  where 
you  come  from. 

Maggie.  I'm  come  from  home  because  I'm  un- 
happy, and  I  mean  to  be  a  gypsy.     I'll  live  with  you, 

63 


64      MAGGIE   TULLIVER'S   VISIT  TO  .THE    GYPSIES 

if  you  like,  and  I  can  teach  you  a  great  many 
things. 

Young  Gypsy.  Such  a  clever  little  lady,  and  such 
a  pretty  bonnet  and  frock!  (Taking  off  Maggies 
bonnet) 

Maggie.  I  don't  want  to  wear  a  bonnet.  I'd 
rather  wear  a  red  handkerchief  like  yours.  My  hair 
was  quite  long  till  yesterday,  when  I  cut  it  off ;  but 
I  dare  say  it  will  grow  again  very  soon. 

Old  Gypsy.  Oh,  what  a  nice  little  lady!  And 
rich,  I'm  sure  !  Didn't  you  live  in  a  beautiful  house 
at  home  ?     , 

Maggie.  Yes,  my  home  is  pretty,  and  I'm  fond 
of  the  river,  where  we  go  fishing;  but  I'm  often 
very  unhappy.  I  should  have  liked  to  bring  my 
books  with  me,  but  I  came  away  in  a  hurry,  you 
know.  But  I  can  tell  you  almost  everything  there 
is  in  my  books.  I've  read  them  so  many  times  — 
and  that  will  amuse  you.  And  I  can  tell  you  some- 
thing about  Geography,  too,  —  that's  about  the 
world  we  live  in,  —  very  useful  and  interesting. 
Did  you  ever  hear  about  Columbus? 

\While  Maggie  has  been  talking,  the  gypsies  have 
been  emptying  her  pocket,  without  attracting 
her  attention^ 

Old  Gypsy.  Is  Columbus  where  you  live,  my 
little  lady? 

Maggie.     Oh,  no !  Columbus  was  a  very  wonder- 


MAGGIE   TULLIVER'S   VISIT   TO    THE    GYPSIES       65 

fill  man,  who  found  out  half  the  world,  and  they 
put  chains  on  him  and  treated  him  badly,  you  know 
—  but  perhaps  it's  rather  long  to  tell  before  tea. 
/  want  my  tea  so  ! 

Young  Gypsy.  Why,  she's  hungry,  poor  little 
lady.  Give  her  some  o'  the  cold  victual.  You've 
been  walking  a  good  way,  I'll  be  bound,  my  dear. 
Where's  your  home  ? 

Maggie.  It's  Dorlcote  Mill,  a  good  way  off. 
My  father  is  Mr.  Tulliver;  but  we  mustn't  let  him 
know  where  I  am,  else  he'll  fetch  me  home  again. 
Where  does  the  queen  of  the  gypsies  live.'^ 

Young  Gypsy.  What !  do  you  want  to  go  to 
her,  my  little  lady? 

Maggie.  No,  I'm  only  thinking  that  if  she  isn't 
a  very  good  queen,  you  might  be  glad  when  she 
died,  and  you  could  choose  another.  If  I  was 
queen,  I'd  be  a  very  good  queen,  and  kind  to 
everybody. 

Old  Gypsy.  Here's  a  bit  of  nice  victual,  then. 
{Handing  Maggie  a  lump  of  dry  bread  and  a  piece 
of  cold  bacon.) 

Maggie.  Thank  you,  but  will  you  give  me  some 
bread  and  butter  and  tea  instead  t  I  don't  like 
bacon. 

Old  Gypsy  {scowling).  We've  got  no  tea  nor 
butter. 

Maggie.     Oh,  a  little  bread  and  treacle  will  do. 

Old  Gypsy  {crossly).     We  ha'n't  got  no  treacle. 

KN.  DKAM.    RKAD.  —  5 


66      MAGGIE   TULLIVER'S   VISIT   TO   THE   GYPSIES 

\_Leader  of  the  Gypsies  enters 7\ 

Young  Gypsy  {to  Leader).  This  nice  little  lady's 
come  to  live  with  us;  aren't  you  glad? 

Leader.  Aye,  very  glad.  {Handling  Maggie  s 
silver  thimble.) 

Old  Gypsy  {seeing  that  Maggie  is  frightened). 
We've  got  nothing  nice  for  a  lady  to  eat,  and  she's 
so  hungry,  sweet  little  lady. 

Young  Gypsy.  Here,  my  dear,  try  if  you  can  eat 
a  bit  o'  this.     {Hajiding  her  some  stew) 

Maggie  {aside).  Oh,  if  father  would  only  come, 
or  Jack  the  Giant-killer,  or  somebody !  .  I'm  so 
afraid  they'll  kill  me ! 

Young  Gypsy,  What  I  you  don't  like  the  smell 
of  it,  my  dear?     Try  a  bit,  come. 

Maggie.  No,  thank  you,  I  haven't  time,  I  think. 
It  seems  to  be  getting  darker.  I  think  I  must  go 
home  now,  and  come  again  another  day,  and  then  I 
can  bring  you  a  basket  with  some  jam  tarts  and 
nice  things. 

Old  Gypsy.  Stop  a  bit,  stop  a  bit,  little  lady; 
we'll  take  you  home,  all  safe,  when  we've  done 
supper.     You  shall  ride  home,  like  a  lady. 

Leader.  Now,  then,  little  missis,  tell  us  where 
you  live.     What's  the  name  o'  the  place  ? 

Maggie  {eagerly).  Dorlcote  Mill  is  my  home. 
My  father  is  Mr.  Tulliver  —  he  lives  there. 

Leader.  What !  a  big  mill  a  little  way  this  side 
o'  St.  Ogg's? 


MAGGIE   TULLIVER'S    VISIT   TO    THE    GYPSIES      67 

Maggie.  Yes.  Is  it  far  off  ?  I  think  I  should 
like  to  walk  there,  if  you  please. 

Leader.  No,  no,  it'll  be  getting  dark.  We  must 
make  haste.  And  the  donkey '11  carry  you  as  nice 
as  can  be — you'll  see. 

Young  Gypsy.  Here's  your  pretty  bonnet;  and 
you'll  say  we've  been  very  good  to  you,  won't  you, 
and  what  a  nice  little  lady  we  said  you  were } 

Maggie.  Oh,  yes,  thank  you.  I'm  very  much 
obliged  to  you.     But  I  wish  you'd  go  with  me,  too. 

Young  Gypsy.  Ah !  you're  fondest  o'  me,  aren't 
you  t     But  I  can't  go  ;  you'll  go  too  fast  for  me. 

{The  Leader  of  the  Gypsies  puts-  Maggie  before  him 
on  the  donkey  s  back  and  rides  off.  Whe7i  they 
reach  a  crossroad.,  Maggie  sees  some  one  coming 
on  a  white-faced  horse ^ 

Maggie.  Oh,  stop,  stop!  There's  my  father! 
Oh,  father,  father! 

Mr.  Tulliver.     Why,  what's  the  meaning  o'  this } 

Leader.  The  little  miss  lost  herself,  I  reckon. 
She'd  come  to  our  tent  at  the  far  end  o'  Dunlow 
Lane,  and  I  was  bringing  her  w^here  she  said  her 
liome  was.  It's  a  good  way  to  come  after  being  on 
the  tramp  all  day. 

Maggie.  Oh,  yes,  father,  he's  been  very  good  to 
bring  me  home.     A  very  kind,  good  man  ! 

Mr.  Tultiver.  Here,  then,  my  man.  {Giving 
him  five  shillings)     It's  the  b^st  day's  workjj/^^  ever 


68       MAGGIK    TULLIVER'S   VISIT   TO   THE   GYPSIES 

did.  I  couldn't  afford  to  lose  the  little  wench  ;  here, 
lift  her  up  before  me.  Why,  Maggie,  how's  this  — 
how's  this  .f^  Don't  cry,  little  one.  How  came  you 
to  be  rambling  about  and  lose  yourself  ? 

Maggie  [sobbing).  Oh,  father,  I  ran  away  because 
I  was  so  unhappy.  Tom  was  so  angry  with  me. 
I  couldn't  bear  it. 

Mr.  Tulliver.  Pooh  !  pooh  !  You  mustn't  think 
of  running  away  from  father.  What  'ud  father  do 
without  his  little  wench  ? 

Maggie.  Oh,  no,  I  never  will  again,  father  — 
never ! 

From  "  Mill  on  the  Floss,"  by  George  Eliot  (adapted). 


SCENES    FROM    "A    LITTLE    MAID 
OF   CONCORD   TOWN" 

Place:  Concord,  Mass. 

Time  :  Just  before  the  battle  of  Lexington. 

SCENE   I 

Debby  Parlin  ran  up  the  hill  with  a  pail  of  milk  and  a  loaf  of 
brown  bread.  On  the  summit  she  stopped  to  take  breath  and 
look  off,  and  down  upon  the  valley,  through  which  wound  the 
Old  Bay  Road.  All  her  soul  was  filled  with  bitterness,  as  she 
thought  of  all  that  Concord  was  enduring. 


Characters  ^ 


'  Simon,  Debby's  cousin 
Debby's  Aunt  Sophia 
Miss  Keziah  Felton 

.  Debby  Parlin 


Debby.  I  wish  the  Regulars  would  come  this 
blessed  minute,  and  have  done  with  all  this  watch- 
ing and  waiting  for  them !  Let  King  George  do 
his  worst ;  he  will  see  what  we  are  made  of !  Oh, 
I  hate  old  King  ♦George  ! 

\_An  old  bent  woman,  looking  like  a  witch,  steps  out 
from  the  bushes  at  the  side  of  the  road.'] 

Debby.  Oh,  Miss  Keziah !  how  do  you  do  to- 
day, and  how  is  Mr.  Felton } 

69 


70  SCENES   FROM    "A   LITTLE   MAID 

Miss  Keziah,  Oh,  Septimius  is  well  enough. 
As  long  as  he  can  sit  with  his  nose  in  a  book,  he 
will  do  from  day's  in  to  day's  out.  But  well,  well, 
as  he  is  to  be  a  minister,  we  must  let  him  be,  and 
thank  the  Lord  it's  no  worse.  But  hark  ye,  my 
pretty,  don't  deceive  me  with  your  fine  speeches 
and  your  neighboring  ways.  I  heard  what  you 
said  about  our  good  king.  Don't  think  an  old 
woman's  ears  are  heavy.  Besides,  the  birds  will  tell 
it,  the  birds  will  tell  it  {waving  her  long,  skinny 
hands),  and  every  leaf  will  whisper  it.  Keep  your 
tongue  safe  locked  in  your  head,  child,  where  every 
woman's  should  be;  for  the  times  are  troublous,  an' 
may  the  Lord  bless  us  all ! 

Debby.  But  I  do  hate  old  King  George,  Miss 
Keziah,  and  I  should  be  a  sinful  girl  not  to  say 
the  truth.  Oh !  he's  a  bad  wicked  man,  —  I  can't 
help  it  if  he  is  a  king, — torturing  us  poor  people 
and  starving  us,  and  sending  soldiers  to  fight  us. 
You  know  he's  bad;  and  you  ought  to  hate  him, 
too! 

Miss  Keziah.  Tush,  tush,  child  !  Never  let  a 
word  escape  you  like  that  again.  Why,  the  Reg'lars 
would  burn  your  house  about  your  ears  an'  kill  you. 
Oh,  lackaday  !  An'  that's  to  be  our  fate  —  all  of 
us,  mayhap. 

Debby.  No,  it  isn't,  Miss  Keziah;  I  tell  you 
we'll  fight  'em  to  skin  and  bone.  And  we'll  make 
those    redcoats    run.       Every    single    one    in    old 


OF   CONCORD   TOWN"  71 

Concord  will  fight,  and  we'll  show  them  we're  not 
afraid  of  'em  a  bit. 

Miss  Keziah  {scorn/21  lly).  Pretty  child,  oh, 
what  a  paltry  thing  for  safety  we  have  !  You'll  see 
when  the  Reg'lars  really  come  !  Ah,  like  an  infant 
in  the  mother's  arms,  you  babble  and  coo  of  safety 
when  the  skies  are  red  with  blood  that  is  to  drop 
on  this  path  before  us,  like  dew  from  the  wings  of 
the  morning. 

Debby  (shivering,  but  courageous).  And  there 
will  be  two  kinds  of  blood  to  run.  Miss  Keziah ; 
and  the  old  Britishers  will  get  the  worst  of  it.  ( Taking 
tip  her  pail  and  bread  ^1  And  I  despise  people  who 
talk  as  you  do;  you're  most  as  bad  as  Tory  Lee ! 

\Debby  runs  away  over  the  fields  to  a  little  red  farm- 
house. She  goes  into  the  kitchen  and  sets  doivn 
the  pail  and  loaf  of  bread  upon  the  table.'\ 

Debby.     Mother  sent  these. 

Aunt  Sophia.  Why,  Debby,  what's  the  matter, 
child  }  Dear,  dear,  you  are  clean  tired  out !  And 
how  is  sister  Ruhama? 

Debby.  I'm  not  tired,  but  I've  had  things  said  to 
me  that  are  hard  to  bear.     Where  are  the  boys  ? 

Aujit  Sophia.  Had  things  hard  to  bear  said  to 
you  }     And  what  are  they,  Debby,  child  1 

Debby,  Oh,  dreadful  things.  W^here  are  the 
boys,  aunt  .^ 

Aunt  Sophia.     I  don't    know\     Simon  went  out 


Simon  and  Debbv 


OF   CONCORD    TOWN"  73 

after  bringing  in  the  wood,  and  I  doubt  not  that 
Jabez  is  with  him,  busy  about  something.  Sit  down 
an'  rest  yourself,  Debby,  an'  tell  me  how  things  are 
at  home. 

\_But  Debby  rushes  out  to  the  wood  shed,  where  she 
finds  her  Cousin  Simon ^ 

Simon  {hiding  something  behind  his  back).  Oh  ! 
it's  you,  Debby,  I  thought  it  was  mother,  an'  I  didn't 
want  to  scare  her. 

Debby  {seei^ig  the  fnusket  he  has  been  cleaning). 
You're  getting  ready  to  fight,  Simon.  Oh,  how 
perfectly  splendid  ! 

Simon.  Yes,  I  am.  An'  I  don't  care  how  soon 
it  comes,  either,  after  I  get  this  old  gun  ready.  And 
Jabez  is  up  in  the  barn  loft  cleaning  his. 

Debby.  Has  Jabez  got  a  musket,  too  .f^  Where 
did  yon  get  'em,  Simon  }  Oh,  Simon,  if  I  were  only 
a  boy!  Do  let  me  take  it  in  my  hand  just  a 
minute. 

Simon.  Well,  you're  not  a  boy,  an'  you  never 
will  be.  {Rubbing  his  gu7istock.)  There's  going  to 
be  an  awful  time,  Debby ;  it's  a-coming  sure. 

Debby.  I  know  it ;  and  that's  what  I  want  to 
help  for.  Oh,  Simon,  don't  you  suppose  they'll  let 
us  girls  do  something.? 

Simon.  Not  to  fight.  Old  Concord  won't  be 
pushed  so  hard  that  she'll  let  the  women  and  the 
girls  fight.     We'll  take  care  of  you  all,  Debby. 


74  SCENES   FROM   "A   LITTLE   MAID 

Deb  by  {petulantly).  I  don't  want  to  be  taken 
care  of.  I  want  to  fight  the  Britishers  and  old 
King  George  myself.  Oh !  it's  mean  I'm  nothing 
but  a  girl. 

Simon  {importantly).  There's  to  be  a  town 
meeting  to-day.      I  s'pose  you  know,  Debby. 

Debby  {scornfully).     Don't  I  know  it } 

Simon.  Uncle  John  is  going  to  town  meeting, 
of  course. 

Debby.  Of  course ;  he  was  up  to  Mr.  Wood's 
last  night  talking  it  all  over. 

Simoji.  It's  time  for  us  to  strike  if  we're  ever 
goin'  to  stand  up  for  ourselves. 

Debby.  I  should  think  our  country  would  want 
the  girls  to  do  something  for  her. 

Simon,  Well,  she  doesn't;  for  we  men  can  take 
care  of  you. 

Debby.  You  are  always  talking  of  our  being 
taken  care  of,  Simon.  That  isn't  the  least  what  I 
want.  I  just  long  to  do  something  myself  for  my 
own  country,  and  to  fight  for  her.  It  isn't  fair  to 
give  it  all  to  the  boys.  Our  country  belongs  to 
everybody,  the  women  and  the  girls,  the  same  as 
to  the  men.  And  the  time  will  come  when  it'll  be 
nice  and  respectable  for  us  to  help,  just  the  same's 
if  we  were  boys;  so  there!  I'm  going  to  fight  for 
my  country  the  very  first  chance  I  get. 

Simo7i  {scornfully).  Well,  you'd  be  drummed 
out  of  service  as  soon  as  you  got  in.     We   don't 


OF   CONCORD   TOWN"  75 

have  petticoats  in  old  Concord  Town  for  soldiers, 
I  can  tell  you,  Debby  Parlin. 

Debby.  Well,  I'm  going  up  to  Persis  Wood's ; 
I've  got  to  spin  with  her.  So  I  shall  hear  all  about 
town  meeting  and  everything  else  before  you  do, 
Mr.  Simon.  I  get  no  satisfaction  out  of  you  at 
all  this  morning.  You  won't  even  tell  me  where 
you  got  your  guns. 

Simon.  Oh,  didn't  I  tell  you.?  Well,  that's  be- 
cause I  was  so  full  of  business  getting  the  old  thing 
ready.     Abner  Butte rfield  got  'em  for  us. 

Debby.  Abner  Butterfield !  Goodness  me,  Si- 
mon, what  are  you  talking  about  .f^  The  idea  of 
Abner  Butterfield  having  anything  to  do  with  guns 
and  fighting.  Why,  he  wouldn't  know  nor  care  if 
there  were  to  be  ten  thousand  wars ;  he'd  stand 
stock-still  and  not  know  till  it  was  all  over. 

Simon.  That's  where  you  wrong  Abner.  Be- 
cause he's  quiet  an'  doesn't  talk  about  how  he  feels, 
folks  don't  see  him  as  he  is. 

Debby.  He  does  vex  me  so,  Simon ;  he's  so  big 
and  slow.  But  I'm  astonished  that  he'd  do  any- 
thing like  the  rest  of  us  Concord  folks,  to  show 
that  we  can't  be  ground  down  to  the  dust  at  the 
bidding  of  a  foolish  and  wicked  king. 

Simon.  When  the  time  comes,  Debby  Parlin, 
Abner  Butterfield  will  fight  as  well  and  as  long  as 
anybody  else.  You'll  find  that  out.  He  won't 
give  up  till  he's  dead. 


76  SCENES   FROM   "A   LITTLE    MAID 

Dcbby.  Fiddlestrlngs,  Simon.  O  dear  me  ;  well, 
I  mustn't  stay  any  longer;  I  ought  to  be  at  Mrs, 
Wood's  this  blessed  minute.  The  idea  of  wasting 
my  time  over  Abner  Butterfield ! 

Simon.     I  don't  see  why  you  don't  start. 

Debby.  But,  Simon,  you're  right.  There's  an 
awful  time  a-coming.  And  I'm  glad  of  it,  for  it's 
best  to  get  it  over  with.  At  any  rate,  Simon,  if  we 
girls  can't  fight,  we  can  talk  and  pray. 

Simon.  Yes,  there's  an  awful  lot  o'  prayin'  been 
goin'  on  in  this  town. 

Debby.  Simon,  I  believe  we  caiit  be  beaten. 
You  see,  God  couldn't  allow  it  very  well,  after  get- 
ting us  over  here  and  promising  to  take  care  of  us, 
and  keeping  us  along  till  this  time.  So  I  know  we 
shall  be  free  and  independent !  Oh,  Simon,  after  all 
we  have  suffered  in  this  town,  and  in  all  the  other 
towns,  to  think  of  relief  coming !  It's  been  so  long, 
now.  Our  one  thought  from  morning  till  night  has 
been,  what  shall  we  do  —  what  can  we  do  —  to  bring 
things  right  '^.  We  cannot  give  up  like  slaves ;  we  can 
only  die.     Simon,  why  don't  you  say  something  ? 

Simon.  Because  I  can't.  {Ton cJiing  his  throat?) 
It  gets  too  full  up  here,  when  I  try  to  speak  about 
it.     Seems  as  if  I  should  choke. 

Debby.  It's  been  so  many  years,  now,  since  I've 
heard  nothing  else.  Why,  I  was  such  a  little  girl, 
Simon,  that  I  don't  remember  when  I  didn't  hear  it 
almost  all  day  long. 


OF   CONCORD    TOWN"  77 

Simon.     I  guess  we  can  all  say  the  same  thing. 

Debby.  I  know  it.  Of  course  we've  all  grown 
up  on  it.  And  do  you  suppose  that  the  talking 
and  praying  of  all  these  years  is  going  to  be  wasted, 
Simon } 

Simon  (vigoronsly).     No,  I  don't ! 

Debby.  No,  no,  no ;  all  the  prayers  are  not  to  be 
wasted.  Poverty  and  suffering  —  oh,  Simon,  what 
haven't  we  suffered  holding  on  to  our  principles  t 

Simon  {clinching  his  musket).  If  you  talk  like 
that,  I'll  forget  my  principles  an'  go  an'  fight  those 
infernal  redcoats  before  it's  time.  Do  I  forget 
her,  Debby  Parlin  1  {Pointing  towards  the  kitchen) 
She's  dying  by  inches  because  she  can't  get  good 
food  ■  to  sustain  her.  Do  I  forget  how  the  worry  to 
keep  out  of  debt  killed  father,  an'  left  Jabez  an'  me 
with  a  load  on  our  shoulders  of  interest  on  the 
mortgage  that  we  can't  pay,  an'  that  is  eating  us  up? 
Remember?     Can  I  ^v^x forget? 

Debby  {frightened).  Well,  so  long  as  we  have  got 
such  men  to  take  care  of  matters  as  there  are  in  this 
town,  I  think  everything  will  be  right.  We  are 
law-abiding  people,  you  know,  Simon.  And  we 
can't  be  beaten  if  we  don't  run.  And  it's  something 
to  be  proud  of  that  we've  never  been  afraid  yet,  but 
we've  said  what  we  thought  we  ought  to.  So  Con- 
cord has  been  heard  from. 

Simon.  She's  always  been  heard  from,  and  she'll 
be  listened  to  when  she  speaks,  finally. 


78  SCENES   FROM    ''A   LITTLE   MAID 


SCENE    II 

One  afternoon,  on  the  Old  Bay  Road,  at  the  outskirts  of  Con- 
cord Town,  a  British  spy,  in  the  disguise  of  an  old  man,  asked 
permission  to  rest  beside  a  cottage  door.  He  had  been  sent  out 
by  the  British  officers  to  learn  all  that  he  could  of  the  spirit  of  the 
colonists.  The  children  playing  beside  the  door  ran  to  ask  their 
mother  if  he  could  not  come  into  the  kitchen. 


Characters  < 


Mrs.  Woodward 

Old  Man 

Nancy"! 

Susan  [Mrs.  Woodward's  children 

Jonas  J 


Mrs.  Woodward.  Yes,  good  man,  come  in. 
Nancy,  set  a  chair.  Susan,  don't  get  in  his  way  so. 
Here,  Jonas,  give  him  your  arm. 

Old  Man.  You  are  very  good  ;  these  be  trou- 
blous times,  and  I  did  not  know  that  I  should  find 
so  much  kindness. 

Mrs.  Woodward.  Troublous  the  times  may  be, 
and  you  may  well  say  so,  but  that's  no  reason  why 
we  shouldn't  look  well  to  the  poor  within  our  gates. 
I'm  sorry  for  you.     How  far  have  you  come  ? 

Old  Ma7i  {feebly).  Quite  a  piece  —  quite  a  piece, 
—  so  far  I  disremember. 

Mrs.  Woodward.  You  must  be  very  tired  and 
hungry.  May  the  Lord  forgive  me  for  not  thinking 
of  it  sooner.      I  will  make  you  a  cup  of  tea. 

Old  Man.     Thank  the  Lord  you  have  tea  to  give 


OF   CONCORD    TOWN"  79 

me.  'Twould  rest  my  bones  more  than  to  take  ten 
years  off  from  them  to  get  an  honest  cup  of  English 
tea. 

Mrs.  Woodward  {angrily).  English  \.^2.\  Who  are 
you  to  come  to  Concord  Town  and  talk  of  English 
tea.'^  Never  a  drop  can  you  get  here  to  wet  your 
throat.  You  may  search  from  one  end  of  the  place 
to  the  other.  No,  we  drink  nothing  that  is  mixed 
by  tyrants,  and  stamped  by  a  wicked  Parliament. 

Jonas.  Don't  scold  him,  mother;  see  him  shake. 
He's  old,  and  he  didn't  know  any  better. 

Mrs.  Woodward.  You  must  excuse  me,  sir ;  but 
I'm  sore  worked  up  indeed  to  think  that  you'd  be- 
lieve for  a  moment  that  a  house  in  Concord  Town 
could  hold  that  wicked  king's  tea.  Here,  drink 
this,  poor  man ;  it  will  rest  you,  for  it  is  an  honest 
cup,  brewed  in  the  spirit  of  liberty. 

Old  Man.     I  am  better  now.     I  need  no  tea. 

Mrs.  Woodward.  Yes,  you  must  drink  it.  You 
are  beaten  with  your  journey.  You  will  say  that 
it  makes  you  well,  when  once  it  is  down. 

Old  Man  (taking  just  a  sip).  It  is  excellent  — 
excellent;  but  my  stomach  is  weak — loss  of  food, 
dear  madam  — my  long  walk.      Pardon  me. 

Susan.  He's  hungry,  mother,  don't  you  under- 
stand }     Do  get  him  something  to  eat,  quick. 

Mrs.  Woodward.  I'm  sure  I  will  ^ive  him  some- 
thing  to  stay  his  hunger.  {Bringing  some  corn 
bread)     Here  is  the  best  I  have. 


8o  SCENES    FROM    ''A   LITTLE   MAID 

Old  Man  {shaking  his  head  feebly).  Could  one 
of  your  little  ones  put  the  bits  into  my  mouth  ? 

Mrs.  Woodward.  You  poor  soul,  yes,  though  I 
wish  you  would  take  the  herb  tea ;  'twould  bring 
you  to. 

Susan.     Let  me  feed  him  —  let  me. 

Nancy.      I  want  to. 

Jonas.  You  can't  either  of  you  do  it  straight.  I 
shall  do  it  myself. 

\The  children  begin  to  quarrel^ 

Mrs.  Woodward  (boxing  their  ears).  Naughty 
children  !  to  fight  and  quarrel  so  when  we  are  all 
in  such  trouble,  and  this  poor  man  may  be  dying 
before  us. 

Jo7ias.     Ma,  Susan's  eaten  the  corn  bread  ! 

Mrs.  Woodward.  You  bad  girl,  and  you  had  two 
whole  slices  for  dinner.  Here,  Jonas,  you  may  feed 
the  poor  old  man.  How  you  children  can  be  so 
naughty,  I  don't  see,  when  we  are  all  in  such 
trouble. 

Old  Man.  You  speak  of  trouble  so  often,  my 
good  woman.  {To  Jonas.)  Not  such  big  pieces, 
please,  and  don't  feed  me  fast.  I  am  an  old  man, 
and  I  can't  eat  very  fast. 

Jonas.    You've  got  all  your  teeth. 

[  The  stranger  closes  his  mouth  (/uickly^ 

Jonas  {whispering  to  his  mother).  I  don't  want 
to  feed  him,  mother  ;  he's  awful  slow  and  queer. 


OF   CONrORD    TOWN"  8i 


Ji 


Mrs.  Woodzvanil.  lie's  very  old.  We  must  pity 
the  infirmities  of  the  aged,  my  son.  See,  he's  nod- 
ding; he'll  go  off  to  sleep,  most  likely.  You  chil- 
dren can  run  out  to  play. 

Old  Man  {apparently  waking  from  a  doze),  I 
must  have  lost  myself.  Oh,  welladay!  my  poor 
limbs  were  all  tired  out.  You  spoke  of  trouble,  my 
good  woman  ;  and  have  you  seen  trouble }  You 
seem  comfortable. 

Mrs.  Woodward  (wrathftilly).  Where  have  you 
been,  not  to  know  the  trouble  and  sore  distress  of 
our  Colonies  '^.  Have  you  been  asleep  all  these  past 
years,  not  to  have  discovered  it }  The  idea  of  com- 
ing to  Concord  Town  and  asking  me  this  question  ! 
Well,  since  you  don't  seem  to  know,  I  will  tell  you 
that  that  wicked  King  George  has  left  no  stone  un- 
turned by  which  he  might  oppress  us.  He  and  his 
wickeder  Parliament  are  determined  to  crush  us, 
but  thev  can't  do  it. 

Old  Man.  You  surely  do  not  mean  to  oppose 
the  king  ! 

Mrs.  Woodward.  Oppose }  Aye,  we  do.  We'll 
fight  him  to  the  death.  There  isn't  a  man  in  Con- 
cord Town  who  won't  do  it. 

Old  Man  {horrified).     What !  fight  your  king  .?* 

Afrs.  Woodward  {angrily).  Our  king!  We  know 
no  king  but  God.  The  king  you  call  ours  is  a 
despot,  and  has  treated  us  like  slaves.  We  have 
obeyed  him,  been   loyal   to  him,  and   loved  him, — 

KN.    DRAM.    READ. — 6. 


82  SCENES   FROM   "A   LITTLE   MAID 

now  don't  talk,  you're  too  old,  ^and  still  he  crushes 
us  to  the  earth.  Nothing  now  remains  for  us  but 
slavery.  Fight  ?  You  shall  see  how  we  will  fight 
when  the  time  comes.  Bless  God,  it's  coming  soon, 
we  pray. 

Old  Man  {amazed).  You  wouldn't  have  your 
husband  go  to  battle,  would  you .? 

Mrs.  Woodward.  I  wouldn't  have  him  not  go. 
And  if  the  men  can't  whip  the  British  enslavers,  we 
women  and  girls  will  all  turn  out.  Where  have 
you  been,  not  to  know  this  without  asking,  pray 
tell  ? 

Old  Man.  I'm  very  old  and  poor  and  tired.  I 
pray  you  to  forgive  me  if  I  make  mistakes. 

Mrs.  Woodward.  No  matter  how  sick  and  poor 
and  troubled  we  be,  we're  all  for  fighting.  Now 
you  ought  to  hear  Debby  Parlin  talk. 

Old  Man.  You  were  speaking  of  one  of  your 
relatives? 

Mrs.  Woodward,  She's  no  kin  to  me,  but  I  wish 
she  was.  Don't  you  know  Debby  Parlin  t  Why, 
everybody  knows  her.  She  lives  down  this  Old 
Bay  Road  in  a  little  cottage  against  the  Ridge. 

Old  Man.  You  forget  I  do  not  live  in  this 
village. 

Mrs.  Woodward.  Seem's  if  everybody  ought  to 
know  Debby  Parlin.  Well,  her  father's  gone  off,  no 
living  mortal  knows  where.  The  trouble  we've  all 
been  in  has  probably  gone  to  his  head.     Land  !     I 


OF   CONCORD   TOWN"  8^ 

wouldn't  want  to  fight  that  girl  if  I  was  a  British 
soldier. 

0/(1^  Man.  You  interest  me  very  much.  And 
you  make  me  forget  my  own  troubles  to  hear  you, 
my  good  woman. 

Mrs.  Woodward.  Well,  it's  a  sight  to  make  a 
body  cry,  to  see  that  girl ;  why,  she  goes  out  spin- 
ning or  weaving,  or  doing  anything  she  can  turn 
her  hand  to,  and  all  the  townsfolk  have  her  come 
and  help  'em.  Everybody  loves  Debby.  O  dear, 
dear !  and  we  can't  help  her  much,  'cause  we're  all 
as  poor  as  Job's  turkeys. 

Old  Man  (rising).  I  must  get  on  a  piece  now. 
Thank  you  kindly,  my  good  woman  ;  I  won't  forget 
you  ever. 

Mrs.  Woodward.  You're  welcome.  Let  me 
help  you.  I'm  sure  I  wish  I  had  better  to  give  you, 
but  it's  all  we've  got  ourselves.  At  any  rate,  it's 
honest  food,  and  it  don't  belong  to  slaves,  for  we're 
bound  to  be  free.  Don't  you  fail  to  remember  that 
I'm  glad  I've  seen  you,  and  may  the  Lord  help  you 
on  your  way.    . 

From  "  A  Little  Maid  of  Concord  Town,"  by  Margaret  Sidney 
(adapted). 


(84) 


I'M  Wet,  —  LET  ME  In" 


THE  DESTRUCTION  OF  TREASURE 
VALLEY 

In  one  of  the  mountain  districts  between  Austria  and  Hungary 
there  was,  in  old  time,  a  surprisingly  rich  valley  surrounded  by 
steep  mountain  peaks.  From  these  peaks  a  number  of  torrents 
fell  in  cataracts.  But,  though  none  of  these  streams  fell  into  the 
valley  itself,  there  was  so  much  rain  in  the  valley,  its  crops  were  so 
heavy,  its  apples  so  red,  its  grapes  so  blue,  and  its  wine  so  rich, 
and  its  honey  so  sweet  that  it  was  called  the  Treasure  Valley.  The 
whole  of  this  little  valley  belonged  to  three  brothers,  called 
Schwartz,  Hans,  and  Gluck.  Schwartz  and  Hans  were  good 
farmers  ;  but  they  were  such  cruel,  selfish  men  that  every  one 
called  them  the  "Black  Brothers." 

The  youngest  brother,  Gluck,  was  a  twelve -year- old  boy  ;  fair, 
blue-eyed,  and  kind  in  temper  to  every  living  thing ;  but  his  elder 
brothers  did  not  treat  him  kindly. 

One  very  wet  summer  the  farmers  in  the  country  round  about 
had  poor  crops,  but  everything  in  the  Treasure  Valley  prospered. 
Everybody  came  to  the  Black  Brothers  to  buy  corn,  and  went  away 
cursing,  because  Schwartz  and  Hans  asked  such  high  prices  and 
refused  to  give  anything  to  the  very  poor  people,  who  could  only 
beg. 

One  very  cold,  wet  day,  when  it  was  drawing  towards  winter, 
the  two  elder  brothers  went  out  with  their  usual  warning  to  little 
(iluck,  —  who  was  left  to  mind  the  roast,  —  not  to  let  anybody  in 
or  give  away  anything. 


85 


86   THE  DESTRUCTION  OF  TREASURE  VALLEY 

SCENE    I 
Place  :   Black  Brothers'  kitchen 


Characters  - 


Gluck 

Old  Gentleman  (Southwest  Wind) 

Schwartz 

Hans 


Gluck  (sitting  close  to  the  fire  and  tiirning  the 
meat  on  the  spit).  What  a  pity  my  brothers  never 
ask  anybody  to  dinner!  I'm  sure  when  they've  got 
such  a  nice  piece  of  mutton  as  this,  and  nobody  else 
has  got  so  much  as  a  piece  of  dry  bread,  it  would  do 
their  hearts  good  to  have  somebody  to  eat  it  with 
them. 

\Heavy  knocking  at  the  door.'\ 

Gluck.  It  must  be  the  wind  ;  nobody  else  would 
venture  to  knock  double  knocks  at  our  door. 

\Gluck  looks  071 1  the  windotv  and  sees  a  little  old 
gentleman  with  long  hair,  merry  eyes,  and  a 
mustache  twisted  like  a  corkscreiv.  He  is  dressed 
in  an  enormous  black  cloak^ 

Old  Gentleinan.  Hello !  That's  not  the  way  to 
answer  the  door.     I'm  wet,  —  let  me  in. 

Gluck.  I  beg  your  pardon,  sir,  I'm  very  sorry, 
but  I  really  can't. 

Old  Gentleman.     Can't  what  1 

Gluck.     I   can't  let  you  in,  sir,  —  I  can't,  indeed. 


THE  DESTRUCTION  OF  TREASURE  VALLEY    87 

My  brothers  would  beat  me  to  death,  sir,  if  I  thought 
of  such  a  thing.      What  do  you  want,  sir  ? 

*  Old  Gentleman  (crossly).  Want !  I  want  fire  and 
shelter;  and  there  is  your  great  fire  there,  crackling, 
blazing,  and  dancing  on  the  walls,  with  nobody  to 
feel  it.  Let  me  in,  I  say ;  I  only  want  to  warm 
myself. 

Gluck.  He  does  look  very  wet ;  I'll  just  let  him 
in  for  a  quarter  of  an  hour.     Come  in,  sir. 

Old  Gentleman.  That's  a  good  boy.  Never 
mind  your  brothers.      I'll  talk  to  them. 

Gluck.  Pray,  sir,  don't  do  any  such  thing.  I 
can't  let  you  stay  till  they  come ;  they'd  be  the  death 
of  me. 

Old  Gentleman.  Dear  me,  I'm  very  sorry  to 
hear  that.      How  long  may  I  stay  } 

Gluck.  Only  till  the  mutton's  done,  sir,  and  it's 
very  brown  now.  Sit  down  by  the  fire,  sir.  You'll 
soon  dry  there,  sir.  I  beg  pardon,  sir,  mayn't  I  take 
your  cloak ;  it  seems  to  be  dripping  wet. 

Old  Gentleman.     No,  thank  you. 

Gluck.     Your  cap,  sir.^^ 

Old  Gentleman  [gruffly).   I  am  all  right,  thank  you. 

Gluck  {hesitatingly).  But  —  sir  —  I'm  —  very 
sorry;  but  —  really,  sir  —  you're  —  putting  the  fire 
out,  you're  so  very  wet. 

Old  Gentleman.  It'll  take  longer  to  do  the  mut- 
ton, then.  That  mutton  looks  very  nice.  Can't 
you  give  me  a  little  bit  ? 


88   THE  DESTRUCTION  OF  TREASURE  VALLEY 

Ghick.     Impossible,  sir. 

Old  Gentleman.  I'm  very  hungry.  I've  had 
nothing  to  eat  yesterday  nor  to-day.  They  surely 
couldn't  miss  a  bit  from  the  knuckle  ! 

Gluck.  They  promised  me  one  slice  to-day,  sir. 
I  can  give  you  that,  but  not  a  bit  more. 

Old  Gentleman.     That's  a  good  boy. 

Gluck  {aside,  cutting  a  piece  of  the  meat),  I 
don't  care  if  I  do  get  beaten  for  it.  Oh  !  some  one's 
knocking. 

\_He  runs  to  open  the  door,  and  Schwartz  and  Hans 

enter.^ 

Schwartz.  What  did  you  keep  us  waiting  in  the 
rain  for.^^ 

Hans.  Aye,  what  for,  indeed,  you  little  vaga- 
bond ! 

Schwartz.     Bless  my  soul ! 

Old  Gentleman  {bowing  very  fast).     Amen  ! 

Schwartz  {catching  up  a  rolling  pin).  Who's 
that  ? 

Gluck.     I  don't  know,  indeed,  brother. 

Schzuartz  {shouting).     How  did  he  get  in  } 

Gluck,     My  dear  brother,  he  was  so  very  wet ! 

Sc Invar tz.     Who  are  you,  sir  } 

Hans  {snarling).    What's  your  business } 

Old  Gentleman.  I'm  a  poor  old  man,  sir ;  and  I 
saw  your  fire  through  the  window  and  begged 
shelter  for  a  quarter  of  an  hour. 


THE  DESTRUCTION  OF  TREASURE  VALLEY    89 

Sclnvartz.  Have  the  goodness  to  walk  out  again, 
then.  We've  quite  enough  water  in  our  kitchen, 
without  making  it  a  drying  house. 

Old  Gentleman,  It  is  a  cold  day  to  turn  an  old 
man  out  in,  sir ;  look  at  my  gray  hairs. 

Ha7is,  Aye  !  There  are  enough  of  them  to  keep 
you  warm.     Walk ! 

Old  Gentleman.  I'm  very,  very  hungry,  sir ; 
couldn't    you    spare    me    a    bit   of    bread    before    I 

go?  . 

Schwartz,     Bread,  indeed!    Do  you  suppose  we've 

nothing  to  do  with  our  bread  but  to  give  it  to  such 

red-nosed  fellows  as  you  .f* 

Hans.  Why  don't  you  sell  the  feather  in  your 
hat.^     Out  with  you  ! 

Old  Gentleman,     A  little  bit ! 

Schwartz.     Be  off ! 

Old  Gentleman.     Pray,  gentlemen  ! 

Hans.     Off,  and  be  hanged  ! 

\_As  soon  as  Hans  touches  the  Old  Gentlemaiis  cloak, 
the  queer  old  fellow  begins  to  spin  round  and 
round,  faster  and  faster,  hittiiig  Hans  and 
Schwartz  and  sending  them  flying  into  the  cor- 
ners of  the  room.  At  last^  slapping  his  cap  on 
his  head,  he  whirls  out  of  the  room.'\ 

Old  Gentleman,  Gentlemen,  I  wish  you  a  very 
good  morning.  At  twelve  o'clock  to-night  I'll  call 
again.     After  such  a  refusal  of  hospitality  as  I  have 


go        THE   DESTRUCTION   OF   TREASURE    VALLEY 

just  had,  you  will  not  be  surprised  if  that  visit  is  the 
last  I  ever  pay  you. 

Schwartz  {muttering).  If  I  ever  catch  you  here 
again  —  A  very  pretty  business,  indeed,  Mr.  Gluck. 
Dish  the  mutton,  sir.  If  ever  I  catch  you  at  such  a 
trick  again  —  bless  me,  why,  the  mutton's  been  cut ! 

Gluck.  You  promised  me  one  slice,  brother,  you 
know. 

Schwartz.  Oh  !  and  you  were  cutting  it  hot,  I 
suppose,  and  going  to  catch  all  the  gravy.  It'll  be 
long  before  I  promise  you  such  a  thing  again. 
Leave  the  room,  sir,  and  have  the  kindness  to  wait 
in  the  coal  cellar  till  I  call  you  ! 

SCENE  II 

Time  :  Midnight 

Schwartz  {starting  up  in  bed).    What's  that  noise } 

Old  Gentleman.     Only  I. 

Schwartz.     Hans  !  the  roorn's  full  of  water  ! 

Hans.     The  roof's  gone  ! 

Old  Gentleman.  Sorry  to  incommode  you.  I'm 
afraid  your  beds  are  dampish.  Perhaps  you  had 
better  go  to  your  brother's  room ;  I've  left  the  ceil- 
ing on  there.  You'll  find  my  card  on  the  kitchen 
table  !     Remember,  this  is  the  last  visit ! 

Schwartz.     Pray  Heaven  it  may  ! 

At  dawn  the  brothers  found  the  Treasure  Valley  one  mass  of 
ruin.     The  water  had  swept  everything  away.     On  their  kitchen 


THE  DESTRUCTION  OF  TREASURE  VALLEY    ^t 

table  was  a  small  white  card,  on  which,  in  large,  breezy,  long-legged 
letters  were  the  words  :  — 


5outl^u;<^5t  U/ipd 


From  "The  King  of  the  Golden  River,"  by  John  Ruskin  (adapted). 


(92) 


Hk  stole  cautiously  to  the  bed  of  old  straw" 


k 


TJTTLE    COSETTE   AND    "FATHER 
CHRISTMAS" 

Little  Cosette  was  thin  and  wan.  She  was  only  eight  years 
old,  and  yet  she  was  a  little  maid-of-all-work  at  the  inn  of  Mont- 
fermeil.  Mother  Thenardier  and  her  husband,  who  kept  the  inn, 
treated  her  very  cruelly.  She  seldom  had  enough  to  eat,  she  was 
always  ragged,  and  her  bony  little  body  was  often  covered  with 
bruises,  where  the  landlord  and  his  wife  had  beaten  her  for  some 
trifling  offense. 

One  Christmas  Eve  Mother  Thenardier  gave  Cosette  a  fifteen- 
sous  piece  and  told  her  to  go  to  the  spring  for  water,  and  to  buy 
a  loaf  of  bread  on  the  way  home.  It  was  very  dark,  and  Cosette 
was  afraid.  In  her  haste  she  bent  too  far  over  the  spring,  and  the 
silver  piece  slipped  out  of  her  pocket  into  the  water.  As  she 
stumbled  along  the  dark  road  with  the  heavy  bucket  of  water, 
suddenly  a  hand  took  the  bucket  from  her. 

SCENE    I 

Place  :    T//e  road  to  the  spring 
Time  :  CJiristuias  Eve 

^,  f  Cosette 

Characters  {  ^        . 
[  Traveler 

Cosette  {very  weary  and  frightened).  Heaven 
help  me  !     Heaven  help  ! 

Traveler  [taking  hold  of  the  bucket).  My  child, 
that  is  very  heavy  for  you  to  carry. 

93 


94      LITTLE   COSETTE   AND    "FATHER   CHRISTMAS" 

Cosette.     Yes,  sir. 

Traveler,  Let  me  have  it ;  I  will  carry  it  for 
you.  Indeed  it  is  heavy.  What  is  your  age,  little 
one } 

Cosette.     I  am  eight  years  old,  sir. 

Traveler.     Have  you  come  far  with  this? 

Cosette.     From  the  spring  in  the  woods. 

Traveler.     Were  you  going  to  take  it  far } 

Cosette.     It  is  a  good  quarter  of  an  hour's  walk. 

Traveler.  It  does  not  look  as  if  you  had  any 
mother. 

Cosette.  I  do  not  know ;  I  do  not  think  I  have. 
Everybody  else  has,  but  not  me.  I  believe  I  never 
had  such  a  thing. 

Traveler.     What  is  your  name  } 

Cosette.     Cosette. 

Traveler.     Where  do  you  live,  little  girl } 

Cosette,  At  Montfermeil ;  you  know  where  that 
is. 

Traveler.     Is  it  there  you  are  going? 

Cosette.     Yes,  master. 

Traveler.  Who  could  have  sent  you  at  this  hour 
to  draw  water  in  the  woods  ? 

Cosette.     Our  landlady,  Madam  Thenardier. 

Traveler.     What  is  she  ? 

Cosette.  She  is  my  mistress.  She  keeps  the  vil- 
lage inn. 

Traveler.  The  inn  ?  Well,  I  shall  take  lodgings 
there  to-night.     Guide  me. 


LITTLE   COSETTE    AND  "FATHER   CHRISTMAS"      95 

Cosette,     We  are  on  the  way. 

Traveler.     Is  there  no  servant  at  this  inn  ? 

Cosette.  No,  master,  I  am  alone  there,  —  oh,  I 
must  not  forget  that  there  are  two  little  girls,  Ponine. 
and  Zelma.    , 

Traveler.     Who  are  they  ? 

Cosette.     Her  daughters. 

Traveler.     What  do  they  do  ? 

Cosette.  Oh,  they  do  nothing,  —  just  play  with 
their  pretty  dolls,  and  toys  that  have  shining  gold 
on  them,  and  they  play  and  amuse  themselves. 

Traveler.     All  day  ? 

Cosette.     Yes,  master. 

Traveler.     While  you  do  the  work  ? 

Cosette  {softly).  All  day  long,  yes,  master.  But  I 
have  some  fun  at  times,  when  the  work  is  done  and 
they  allow  me. 

Traveler.     How  do  you  have  your  fun .? 

Cosette.  As  I  can.  It  is  good  enough  if  they 
will  only  let  me  alone.  But  I  haven't  any  toys  to 
speak  of.  Ponine  and  Zelma  do  not  like  me  to  play 
with  their  dollies.  I  have  nothing  but  a  sword,  no 
longer  than  that.     {Holding  up  her  little  finger) 

Traveler.     I  suppose  that  would  not  cut. 

Cosette.  Excuse  me,  master,  it  cuts  salad  up,  and 
cuts  off  flies'  heads. 

Traveler.     Are  they  holding  a  fair  in  this  village } 

Cosette.  No,  master,  they  are  celebrating  Father 
Christmas.     Please,  master  — 


96      LITTLE   COSETTE   AND    "FATHER   CHRISTMAS" 

Traveler.     What  ? 

Cosette.  We  are  close  to  our  house.  Will  you 
let  me  take  the  bucket  now  ? 

Tra  veler.     Why? 

Cosette.  If  mistress  saw  you  carrying  it,  she 
would  beat  me. 

SCENE   II 

Place  :    TJie  iitJi  at  Montfermeil 
Time  :   Christmas  Eve 


Character's 


Mother  Thenardier 

Cosette 

Traveler 

Poiiine  Thenardier 


\_As  Cosette  knocks  at  the  inn  door,  she  casts  long- 
ing glances  at  a  beatitiful  doll  in  a  brillia7itly 
lighted  windozv  of  a  shop  next  door7\ 

Mother  Thenardier  {throwing  the  door  ope^i). 
Oh,  is  it  you  }  You  have  taken  your  time !  I  sup- 
pose the  little  jade  has  been  amusing  herself. 

Cosette  {trembling).  Mistress,  here  is  a  gentleman 
seeking  a  night's  lodging. 

Mother  Thenardier.     Is  this  the  gentleman } 

Traveler.     Yes,  madam. 

Mother  Thenardier.  I  am  very  sorry,  but  I  have 
no  room. 

Traveler.  Put  me  where  you  can,  in  the  loft  or 
the  garret,  —  I  shall  pay  the  same  as  for  a  bedroom. 


LITTLE   COSETTE   AND    "FATHER   CHRISTMAS"      97 

Mother  Thenardier,     That  is  forty  sous. 

Traveler.     Let  it  be  forty  sous. 

Mother  Thenardier.  That  is  all  right,  then.  (To 
Cosette.)     How  about  that  bread  .^^ 

Cosette.     Please,  madam,  the  bakers  was  shut. 

Mother  Theizardier.  You  ought  to  knock  till  he 
opened. 

Cosette.     I  did  knock,  but  he  would  not  open. 

Mother  The^iardier.  I  shall  learn  to-morrow  if 
that  is  true ;  and  if  you  lie,  you  shall  skip  in  a  merry 
dance.  Meanwhile,  hand  back  the  fifteen-sous  piece. 
Do  you  mean  to  say  you  have  lost  it,  or  are  you 
trying  to  steal  it  from  me  .^^ 

\^Mother  Thenardier  takes  a  whip  and  raises  it  to 
strike  Cosette^ 

Cosette.     Mercy,  madam  !     I  won't  do  it  again ! 

Traveler.  Excuse  me,  madam,  but  awhile  ago 
I  saw  something  fall  from  that  child's  clothes  and 
roll  over  there.  Perhaps  this  is  what  she  dropped. 
(Stooping  and  feeling  along  the  floor.)  Right  I  am, 
—  here  it  is  !• 

Mother  Thenardier,  Yes,  that  is  it.  ( To  Cosette) 
Let  me  catch  you  doing  that  again ! 

\Cosette  crawls  binder  the  table  and  begins  knitting, 
Ponine  and  Zelma  enter  with  their  dolls.~\ 

Mother  Thenardier  (seeing  that  Cosette  has  stopped 
her  work).     Ah!     Do  I  catch  you  idling.^*     Is  that 

KN.  DRAM.  READ. —  7 


98      LITTLE    COSETTE    AND    "FATHER   CHRISTMAS" 

the  way  you  get  on  with  your    work  ?     I   will  keep 
time  to  your  stitches  with  the  whip  ! 

Traveler.    Never  mind,  madam ;  let  her  idle  a  little  ! 

Mother  Thenar dier.  She  has  to  work  if  she  ex- 
pects to  eat.     I  cannot  feed  her  for  nothing. 

Traveler,     What  is  she  doing  .? 

Mother  Thenardier.  Stockings,  —  stockings  for 
my  little  daughters. 

Traveler.  How  long  will  she  be  finishing  that 
pair  of  stockings  '^. 

Mother  Thenardier.  Thatlazybones  will  be  three 
or  four  days  getting  them  done. 

Traveler.     What  will  they  be  worth  when  done  '^. 

Mother  Thenardier.     At  least  thirty  sous. 

Traveler.     Will  you  sell  them  to  me  for  five  francs } 

Mother  Thenardier.  Yes,  sir,  if  you  have  a  whim 
that  way,  you  can  have  the  stockings  for  five  francs. 
We  never  refuse  our  customers  anything,  as  long  as 
it  is  money  down. 

Traveler.  I  buy  this  pair  of  stockings,  and  I  pay 
cash.  Now  {turning  to  Cosette),  your  time  is  mine. 
Take  a  turn  at  romping,  my  child ! 

Cosette  (trembling).  Mistress,  is  this  so  ?  May  I 
play  a  little } 

Mother  Thenardier  (a7tgrily)^     Play! 

Cosette.     Thank  you,  madam. 
\When  no  one  is  watching  her,  Cosette  slyly  takes 
Ponines  doll  and  begiiis  to  play  with  it  under 
the  table^ 


LITIXE   COSETTE    AND    "FATHER   CHRISTMAS"      99 

Ponine.     Look,  sister,  only  look  ! 

Mother  Thenardier  (angrily).  Cosette  !  Cosette  I 
[Cosctte  crying.)  * 

Traveler.     What  is  the  matter  ? 

Mother  Thenardier.     Can't  you  see  ? 

Traveler.     Well,  what  is  it  ? 

Mother  Thenardier.  She  has  taken  the  liberty 
of  handling  my  daughter's  doll. 

Traveler.  All  that  outcry  for  so  little  ?  Well, 
what  harm,  supposing  she  did  handle  the  doll  ? 

Mother  Thenardier.  She  has  touched  it  with 
her  dirty  hands,  —  with  her  nasty  hands  !  (Cosette 
cries  louder^ 

Mother  Thenardier.  Will  you  hold  your  tongue  ? 
\^The  traveler  steps  outside  quickly,  and  very  soon 
returns  with  the  big  doll  that  Cosette  has 
looked  at  so  longingly  in  the  shop  window^ 

Traveler  (to  Cosette).     Here,  this  is  for  you  ! 

Mother  Thenardier  (aside).  What  is  this  odd 
fellow  ?  That  trash  cost  at  least  thirty  francs  !  (To 
Cosette  in  a  bla^id  tone)  Well,  dear  Cosette,  why  do 
you  not  take  your  dolly  ?  This  gentleman  gives 
you  the  doll.     Take  it —  it  is  yours. 

Cosette  (timidly).     May  I,  madam  ? 

Mother  Thenardier.  Of  course,  since  it  is  your 
own.     The  gentleman  gave  it  to  you. 

Cosette.  Is  that  so,  master  ?  Is  it  true  ;  is  the 
lady  mine.'^  I  shall  call  her  Catherine.  Madam, 
may  I  set  her  on  a  chair  ? 


lOO    LITTLE   COSETTE   AND    "FATHER   CHRISTMAS" 

Mother  Thenardier.     1  don't  mind. 
Traveler^     Play,  Cosette. 
Cosette  (shyly).     Oh,  I  am  playing. 
Mother  Thenardier  {aside).     The  old  beast !     To 
come  here  and  upset  us !  to  want  that  little  toad  to 
play !  to  give  her  dolls,  —  dolls  that  cost  forty  francs  ! 
{To  Traveler)     May  I  have  your  kind  permission  to 
send  Cosette  to  bed ;  she  is  very  tired  this  day. 
\_After  the  traveler  went  to  his  room  he  stole  cau- 
tiously to  the  bed  of  old  straw  where  Cosette 
was  lyings  in  the  midst  of  broke7i  bottles^  dust, 
and  spiders    webs.     In   the  darkest  corner  of 
the  old  fireplace  he  found  little  Cosette  s  wooden 
shoe,  coated  with  ashes  atid  dried  m.ud.      The 
traveler  stooped  and  dropped  a  gold  piece  into 
the  clumsy  little  shoe^ 

SCENE   III 

Place  :    The  inn  kitchen. 
Time  :  Christmas  morning. 

'  Traveler 
Cosette 

Mother  Thenardier 
Monsieur  Thenardier 


Characters  < 


Mother  Thenardier  {to  Traveler,  who  has  Just  come 
from  his  room).     Up  so  early ! 

Traveler.     Yes,  madam,  I  must  be  going. 

Mother  Thenardier.  Then  you  have  no  business 
here } 


LITTLE    COSETTE    AND   "FAiTHEfe  cMiSVmA^^' 


lOI 


Traveler,  No,  I  am  only  passing  through.  Are 
you  doing  well  here  ? 

Mother  Thenardier.  Oh,  sir,  the  times  are  hard ! 
We  have  such  heavy  taxes  to  pay  !  Why,  look  at 
our  burden  —  Cosette,  for  instance,  who  costs  the 
very  eyes  out  of  our  head ! 

.  Traveler.     How  would  you  like  it  if  some  one 
took  her  off  your  hands? 

Mother  Thenardier.  Is  it  true  that  you  will  take 
her  away  ? 

Traveler.     I  will  and  right  away.     Call  the  child. 

Mother  Thenardier  (screaming).     Cosette  ! 

Traveler.     Go,  fetch  the  little  one. 

Monsieur  Thenardier  {entering  the  room),  I 
want  to  talk  a  little  with  the  gentleman.  Master, 
I  am  bound  to  own  to  you  that  I  adore  that 
darling. 

Traveler  {looking  steadily  at  him).  What  dar- 
ling.? 

Monsieur  Thenardier.  This  is  a  child  that  I 
adore ! 

Traveler.     Who  are  you  talking  about } 

Mo7isieur  Thenardier.  Why,  our  little  pet  of  a 
Cosette,  of  course  !  Did  you  not  talk  of  wanting  to 
take  her  away?  I  can  never  consent  to  it.  I 
should  miss  the  little  dear.  It  is  true  that  she  costs 
us  a  lot  of  money,  and  has  some  faults,  and  we  are 
not  well  off;  but  one  must  do  something  for  sweet 
charity's  sake !     I  love  her,  and  so  does  my  wife, 


I02    LITTLE   COSETTE.  AND    "FATHER   CHRISTMAS" 

though  she  is  a  trifle  hasty.  You  understand  ? 
Supposing  that  I  should  let  her  go,  I  should  want 
to  know  where  she  went.  I  should  have  to  know 
with  whom  she  was  living.  I  shall  have  to  see  some 
document,  an  address-card,  or  a  corner  of  a  pass- 
port, eh  ? 

Traveler.  Master  Thenardier,  there  is  no  need 
for  a  man  to  get  a  passport  to  come  out  of  Paris  a 
few  miles.  If  I  take  Gosette  with  me,  I  take  her  — 
that  is  all.  You  are  not  to  know  my  name  or  dwel- 
ling, nor  where  she  will  be,  and  my  intention  is  that 
she  shall  never  see  you  again  in  life.  Does  that 
suit  you  }     Yes  or  no  ? 

Monsieur  Thenardier.  Sir,  I  want  fifteen  hun- 
dred francs ! 

Traveler  {laying  three  bank  notes  on  the  table). 
Bid  Cosette  come  here. 

\As   Cosette  enters  the  room    the  traveler  opens  a 
bundle  of  child^s  clothing7\ 

Traveler.  Take  these,  my  child,  and  put  them 
on.     Be  quick ! 

Cosette  (softly).     Father  Christmas ! 

Early  Christmas  morning  the  villagers  saw  little  Cosette,  with 
her  pink  doll  in  her  arms,  walking  through  the  village  with  a  poorly 
clad  old  fellow,  to  whom  the  little  girl  looked  up  trustingly  now 
and  then.  She  felt  that  "  Father  Christmas  "  was  walking  by  her 
side. 

From  "  Les  Miserables,"  by  Victor  Hugo  (adapted) . 

Thenardier  —  Ta  nar  de  a.  Montfermeil  —  Mon  fer  ma  e. 


SCENES     FROM    "JOHN     HALIFAX, 
GENTLEMAN " 

Abel  Fletcher  was  a  Quaker,  and  the  tanner  of  an  English  vil- 
lage called  Norton  Bury.  One  day  when  he  was  wheeling  his 
lame  son  Phineas,  a  boy  of  sixteen,  they  came  upon  John  Halifax, 
another  boy  about  fourteen  years  old,  standing  in  one  of  the  quiet 
streets,  apparently  in  deep  thought. 

SCENE   I 


Characters 


rAbel  Fletcher 
Phineas  Fletcher 
John  Halifax 
Jael,  a  servant 


Abel  Fletcher  (looking  at  his  watch).  Twenty- 
three  minutes  lost  by  this  shower.  Phineas,  my  son, 
how  am  I  to  get  thee  safe  home.^^  Unless  thou  wilt 
go  with  me  to  the  tan  yard  — 

Phineas.     No,  father,  I  don't  want  to. 

Abel  Fletcher.  Well,  well,  I  must  find  some  one 
to  go  home  with  thee.  I  must  find  some  lad  who 
wants  to  earn  an  honest  penny. 

John  Halifax.  Sir,  I  want  work ;  may  I  earn  the 
penny? 

Abel  Fletcher.     What  is  thy  name,  lad.f* 

John.     John  Halifax. 

103 


(I04) 


John  Halifax  and  Phineas 


SCENES   FROM   "JOHN    HALIFAX,    GENTLEMAN"    105 

Abel  Fletcher.     Where  dost  thee  come  from? 

John,     Cornwall. 

Abel  Fletcher.     Hast  thee  any  parents  living? 

John.     No. 

Abel  Fletcher.  How  old  might  thee  be,  John 
Halifax? 

John.     Fourteen,  sir. 

Abel  Fletcher.     Thee  art  used  to  work? 

John.     Yes. 

Abel  Fletcher.     What  sort  of  work? 

John.     Anything  I  can  do. 

Abel  Fletcher.  Well,  thee  shall  take  my  son 
home,  and  Til  give  thee  a  groat.  Let  me  see  (look- 
ing sharply  at  hint)  —  art  thee  a  lad  to  be  trusted? 
I  say,  art  thee  a  lad  to  be  trusted?  {Nodding  in  a  sat- 
isjied  way)     Lad,  I  shall  give  thee  thy  groat  now. 

John.     Not  till  I've  earned  it,  sir. 

[John    Halijax    starts    down    the    street,    wheeling 
Phineas  in  his  carriage^ 

Phineas  {sighing).  How  strong  you  are!  So 
tall  and  so  strong ! 

John.     Am  I?     Well,  I  shall  want  my  strength. 

Phineas.     How? 

John.     To  earn  my  living. 

Phineas.     What  have  you  worked  at  lately? 

John.  Anything  I  could  get,  for  I  have  never 
learned  a  trade. 

Phineas.     Would  you  like  to  learn  one? 


t 

io6    SCENES   FROM   "JOHN    HALIFAX,    GENTLEMAN" 

/o/m.  Once  I  thought  I  should  Hke  to  be  what 
my  father  was. 

Phmeas.     What  was  he  ? 

John.     A  scholar  and  a  gentleman. 

Pkineas.  Then  perhaps  you  would  not  like  to 
follow  a  trade. 

Jo/m.  Yes,  I  should.  What  would  it  matter  to 
me.^     My  father  was  a  gentleman. 

Pkineas.     And  your  mother } 

John.  She  is  dead.  I  do  not  like  to  hear  a  stran- 
ger speak  about  my  mother. 

Phiiieas.  Have  you  been  up  and  down  the 
country  much  1 

John,  A  great  deal  these  last  three  years,  doing 
what  I  could  in  hop  picking,  apple  gathering,  har- 
vesting—  only  this  summer  I  had  typhus  fever  and 
could  not  work. 

Phineas,     What  did  you  do  then } 

John.  I  lay  in  a  barn  till  I  got  well.  I'm  quite 
well  now;  you  need  not  be  afraid. 

Phineas.  No,  indeed,  I  never  thought  of  that. 
How  shall  you  live  in  the  winter,  when  there  is  no 
outdoor  work  to  be  had } 

John.      I  don't  know. 

Phineas.     Oh,  here  we  are  at  home. 

John.  Are  you }  Good  day,  then  —  which  means 
good-by. 

Phineas.  Not  good-by  just  yet,  for  I  shall  have 
to  ask  you  to  help  me  mount  the  steps. 


SCENES   FROM    "JOHN   HALIFAX,    GENTLEMAN"    107 

Jofm.  Suppose  you  let  me  carry  you.  I  could 
—  and  —  and  —  it  would  be  great  fun,  you  know. 
Now,  is  there  anything  more  I  can  do  for  you,  sir.? 

Phineas.  Don't  call  me  "  sir."  I  am  only  a  boy 
like  yourself.  I  want  you ;  don't  go  yet.  Here 
comes  my  father. 

Abel  Fletcher,     Hast  thee  taken  care  of  my  son? 
Did  he  give  thee  thy  groat,  my  lad.^^     {P/mieas  whis- 
pers to  his  father.)    Lad,  —  I  forget  thy  name,  —  here 
is  thy  money,  and  a  shilling  added,  for  being  kind 
to  my  son. 

Jo/m.  Thank  you,  but  I  want  payment  only  for 
work. 

Abel  Fletcher.  Eh  !  thee  art  an  odd  lad ;  but  I 
can't  stay  talking  with  thee.  Come  in  to  dinner, 
Phineas.    ( Turning  to  John)    I  say,  art  thee  hungry } 

John.     Very  hungry  —  nearly  starving  ! 

Abel  Fletcher.  Bless  me  !  Then  get  in  and  have 
thy  dinner.  But  first  —  thee  art  a  decent  lad,  come 
of  decent  parents  '^. 

John  (indignantly).     Yes ! 

Abel  Fletcher.     Thee  works  for  thy  living.? 

John.     I  do,  whenever  I  can  get  it. 

Abel  Fletcher.     Thee  hast  never  been  in  jail .? 

Johi  [angrily).  No !  I  don't  want  your  dinner, 
sir.  I  would  have  stayed,  because  your  son  asked 
me,  and  he  was  kind  to  me,  and  I  liked  him.  Now 
I  think  I  had  better  go.     Good  day,  sir. 

\Phineas  catches  hold  of  Johns  hafid.'] 


lo8    SCENES   FROM   "JOHN   HALIFAX,    GENTLEMAN" 

Abel  Fletcher.     There,   there,   lads,   get   in,   and 
make  no  more  ado. 


SCENE   II 

After  dinner,  when  Mr.  Fletcher  had  left  the  room,  the  two 
boys  sat  talking. 

John.  Now,  how  do  you  feel,  and  is  there  any- 
thing I  can  do  for  you  before  you  go  away  '^. 

Phineas.  You  won't  go  away,  please,  —  not  till 
my  father  comes  home  at  least. 

John.  Thank  you ;  you  are  very  kind.  I'll  stay 
an  hour  or  so,  if  you  wish  it. 

Phineas.  Now  come  and  sit  down  and  let  us 
have  a  long  talk. 

Joh7i.     Can  you  read  1 

Phi7ieas.     I  should  rather  think  so. 

John.     And  write } 

Phineas,     Oh,  yes,  certainly. 

John.  I  can't  write,  and  I  don't  know  when  I 
shall  be  able  to  learn.  I  wish  you  would  put  down 
something  in  a  book  for  me. 

Phhieas.     That  I  will. 

John  (takijig  a  Testament  Jrom  his  pockef). 
Look  here. 

Phi7ieas  (reading  from  the  Jly  leaf^.  "  Guy  Hali- 
fax, his  book.  Guy  Halifax,  gentleman,  married 
Muriel  Joyce  May  17,  in  the  year  of  our  Lord, 
1779.     John  Halifax,  their  son,  born  June  18,  1780. 


SCENES   FROM   "JOHN   HALIFAX,    GENTLEMAN"    109 

Guy  Halifax  died  January  4,  1791."     What  shall  I 
write,  John  ? 
John.     Write   "  Muriel   Halifax   died    January   i,. 

1794." 

PJmteas.     Nothing  more? 

John.  Nothing  more.  Phineas,  I've  had  a  merry 
day  —  thank  you  kindly  for  it;  and  now  I'll  be 
gone. 

Phineas.  Why  do  you  want  to  go  ?  You  have 
not  any  work. 

John.     No ;  I  wish  I  had.     But  I'll  get  some. 

Phineas.     How? 

John.  Just  by  trying  everything  that  comes  to 
hand.  That's  the  only  way.  I  never  wanted  bread, 
nor  begged  it  yet,  though  I've  often  been  rather 
hungry.  And  as  for  clothes  {looking  down  at  his 
shabby  garments),  I'm  afraid  she  would  be  sorry  — 
that's  all.     She  always  kept  me  so  tidy. 

Phineas.  Come,  cheer  up.  Who  knows  what 
may  turn  up  ? 

John.  Oh,  yes,  something  always  does;  I'm  not 
afraid. 

Phineas.  John,  do  you  know  you're  uncom- 
monly like  a  childish  hero  of  mine  —  Dick  Whit- 
tington.     Did  you  ever  hear  of  him  ? 

John.     No. 

Phifteas.  Come  into  the  garden,  then.  You'll 
hear  the  abbey  bells  chime  presently  —  not  unlike 
Bow  bells,  I  used  to  fancy  sometimes ;  and  we'll  lie 


no    SCENES   FROM    "JOHN   HALIFAX,   GENTLEMAN" 

on  the  grass,  and  I'll  tell  you  the  whole  true  and 
particular  story  of  Sir  Richard  Whittington.  {Tak- 
ing tip  his  crutches^     You  don't  need  these  things. 

John,     I  hope  you  will  not  need  them  always. 

Phineas.  Perhaps  not;  Dr.  Jessop  isn't  sure. 
But  it  doesn't  matter  much. 

John.  I  think,  if  you  didn't  mind,  I'm  sure  I 
could  carry  you.  I  carried  a  meal-sack  once,  weigh- 
ing eight  stone. 

Phineas  (laughing).  Please  take  me  to  that 
clematis  arbor;  it  looks  over  the  Avon.  Now,  how 
do  you  like  our  garden  ? 

John.  It's  a  nice  place ;  it's  a  very  nice  place. 
Have  you  lived  here  long? 

Phineas,     Ever  since  I  was  born. 

John.  Well,  it's  a  nice  place.  This  grass  plot  is 
very  even,  —  thirty  yards  square,  I  should  guess. 
I'd  get  up  and  pace  it,  only  I'm  rather  tired. 

Phijieas.     Are  you?     Yet  you  would  carry  — 

Joht.  Oh,  that's  nothing.  I've  often  walked 
farther  than  to-day.  But  still,  it's  a  good  step 
across  the  country  since  morning. 

Phineas.     How  far  have  you  come  ? 

John.  From  the  foot  of  those  hills.  I  forget 
what  they  call  them  —  over  there.  I  have  seen 
bigger  ones  ;  but  they're  steep  enough,  —  bleak  and 
cold  too,  especially  when  one  is  lying  out  among 
the  sheep.  At  a  distance  they  look  pleasant.  This 
is  a  very  pretty  view. 


SCENES   FROM    "JOHN    HALIFAX,    GENTLEMAN"    iii 

[  The  abbey  bells  ring  out^ 

What's  that  ?  ' 

Plmieas  {singing).  "  Turn  again,  Whittington, 
Lord  Mayor  of  London."  Probably  this  garden  be- 
longed to  the  abbey  in  ancient  times,  —  our  orchard 
is  so  fine.  The  monks  may  have  planted  it ;  they 
liked  fruit. 

John.  Do  you  think  they  planted  that  yew 
hedge }  That  is  all  of  fifteen  feet  high  and  nearly 
as  thick.     Why,  it's  a  regular  wall ! 

Phineas.  What  are  you  about  ?  Did  you  want 
to  get  through  ? 

John,     I  wanted  just  to  see  if  it  were  possible. 

Phineas,  What  would  you  do,  John,  if  you  were 
shut  up  here,  and  had  to  get  over  the  yew  hedge  ? 
You  could  not  climb  it. 

John.  I  know  that,  and  therefore  I  should  not 
waste  time  in  trying. 

Phineas.     Would  you  give  up  then  ? 

John.  I'll  tell  you  what  I'd  do:  I'd  begin ,  and 
break  it,  twig  by  twig,  till  I  forced  my  way  through, 
and  got  out  safe  at  the  other  side. 

Abel  Fletcher  (coming  up  behirid  them).  Well 
done,  lad!  but  if  it's  all  the  same  to  thee,  I  would 
rather  thee  did  not  try  that  experiment  upon  my 
hedge  at  present.  Is  that  thy  usual  fashion  of  get- 
ting over  a  difficulty,  friend }     What's  thy  name  1 

Phineas.     It's  John  Halifax,  father. 

Abel  Fletcher.      Didn't    thee    say    thee    wanted 


J 12    SCENES   FROM    "JOHN   HALIFAX,    GENTLEMAN'* 

work?  It  looks  rather  like  it.  But  thee  need'st 
not  be  ashamed ;  better  men  than  thee  have  been  in 
rags.     Hast  thee  any  money  ? 

John.  The  groat  you  gave,  —  that  is,  paid  me, 
I  never  take  what  I  don't  earn. 

Abel  Fletcher.  Don't  be  afraid.  I  was  not  going 
to  give  thee  anything  except,  maybe  —  Would  thee 
like  some  work  1 

Johi.     Oh,  sir! 

Phineas.     Oh,  father ! 

Abel  Fletcher.     Well,  what  canst  thou  do,  lad  } 

John.     Anything. 

Abel  Fletcher.  Anything  generally  means  noth- 
ing.    What  hast  thou  been  at  all  this  year } 

John.  Let  me  think  a  minute,  and  I'll  tell  you. 
All  the  spring  I  was  at  a  farmer's,  riding  the  plow- 
horses,  hoeing  turnips.  Then  I  went  up  the  hills 
with  some  sheep.  In  June  I  tried  haymaking  and 
caught  a  fever;  you  needn't  start,  sir;  I've  been  well 
these,  six  weeks,  or  I  wouldn't  have  come  near  your 
son.     Then  — 

Abel  Fletcher.     That  will  do,  lad  ;  I'm  satisfied. 

John.  Thank  you,  sir.  I  shall  be  willing  and 
thankful  for  any  work  you  can  give  me. 

Abel  Fletcher.  Phineas,  one  of  my  men  at  the 
tan  yard  has  enlisted  this  day,  —  left  an  honest  live- 
lihood to  be  a  paid  cut-throat.  Dost  thee  think  that 
this  lad  is  fit  to  take  the  place  ? 

Phmeas.     Whose  place,  father? 


SCENES   FROM   "JOHN  HALIFAX,  GENTLEMAN"    113 

Abel  Fletcher.     Bill  Watkins'. 

Phineas.     But,  father,  to  do  that  dirty  work^ — 

Abel  Fletcher,  Then  he  may  go  about  his 
business. 

Phineas.     But,  father,  isn't  there  anything  else  ? 

Abel  Fletcher.  I  have  nothing  else,  or  if  I  had  I 
wouldn't  give  it.  "  He  that  will  not  work,  neither 
shall  he  eat." 

Joh7t,  I  will  work.  I  don't  care  what  it  is,  if 
only  it's  honest  work. 

Abel  Fletcher.     Canst  thee  drive  } 

John.     That  I  can. 

Abel  Fletcher.  It's  only  a  cart,  the  cart  with  the 
skins. 

John.  Thank  you,  sir.  I'll  do  it  well  —  that  is, 
as  well  as  I  can. 

Abel  Fletcher.  Well,  I  will  take  thee,  though  it 
isn't  often  that  I  take  a  lad  without  a  recommenda- 
tion of  some  sort.     I  suppose  thee  hast  none. 

John.     None. 

Abel  Fletcher  {shaking  John' s  hajid  and  putting  a 
shilling  into  it).  This  is  to  show  I  have  hired  thee 
as  my  servant. 

John.  Servant!  Oh,  yes,  I  understand.  Well, 
I  will  try  and  serve  you  well.  (Throwing  his  cap 
high  in  the  air)    Hurrah  ! 

From  "  John  Halifax,  Gentleman,"  by  Dinah  Mulock  Craik  (adapted). 


KN.    DRAM.    RKAl). 


THE    MIRACULOUS    PITCHER 

One  evening,  in  times  long  ago,  old  Philemon  and  his  old  wife, 
Baucis,  sat  at  their  cottage  door,  enjoying  the  beautiful  sunset. 
They  talked  about  their  garden,  and  their  cow,  and  their  bees, 
and  their  grapevine,  until  the  rude  shouts  of  children  and  the 
fierce  barking  of  dogs  grew  so  loud  that  they  could  hardly  hear 
each  other  speak. 

Baucis 


Characters 


Philemon 

Jupiter 

Quicksilver 


SCENE    I 

Philemon.  Ah,  wife,  I  fear  some  poor  traveler  is 
seeking  hospitality  among  our  neighbors,  and  in- 
stead of  giving  him  food  and  lodging,  they  have  set 
their  dogs  at  him,  as  their  custom  is. 

Baucis.  Well-a-day  !  I  do  wish  our  neighbors 
felt  a  little  more  kindness  for  their  fellow-creatures. 
And  only  think  of  bringing  up  their  children  in  this 
naughty  way  and  patting  them  on  the  head  when 
they  fling  stones  at  strangers ! 

Philemon.  Those  children  will  never  come  to 
any  good.  To  tell  you  the  truth,  wife,  I  should  not 
wonder  if  some  terrible  thing  were  to  happen  to  all 
the  people    in  the  village,  unless  they  mend  their 

115 


Ii6  THE   MIRACULOUS   PITCHER 

manners.  But,  as  for  you  and  me,  so  long  as  we 
have  a  crust  of  bread,  let  us  be  ready  to  give  half  to 
any  poor,  homeless  stranger  that  may  come  along 
and  need  it. 

Baucis.     That's  right !     So  we  will ! 

Philemon,     I  never  heard  the  dogs  so  loud ! 

Baucis.     Nor  the  children  so  rude  ! 

\_All  at  once  they  see  two  travelers  approaching,  with 
a  crowd  of  childre7i  hooting,  and  a  pack  of 
dogs  darkijtg  at  their  heels.'] 

Philemon.  Come,  wife,  let  us  go  and  meet  these 
poor  people.  No  doubt  they  feel  almost  too  heavy- 
hearted  to  climb  the  hill. 

Baucis.  Go  you  and  meet  them,  while  I  make 
haste  within  doors,  and  see  whether  we  can  get 
them  anything  for  supper.  A  comfortable  bowl  of 
bread  and  milk  would  do  wonders  toward  raising 
their  spirits. 

Philemon  {going  to  meet  the  strangers).  Wel- 
come; strangers !  welcome  ! 

Quicksilver.  Thank  you  !  This  is  quite  another 
greeting  than  we  have  met  yonder,  in  the  village. 
Pray,  why  do  you  live  in  such  a  bad  neighborhood  } 

Philemon.  Providence  put  me  here,  I  hope,  in 
order  that  I  may  make  up  for  the  inhospitality  of 
my  neighbors. 

Quicksilver.  Well  said,  old  father !  Those 
children  —  the  little  rascals  I  —  have  bespattered  us 


THE   MIRACULOUS   PITCHER  II7 

With  their  mud  balls  ;  and  one  of  the  curs  has  torn 
my  cloak,  which  was  ragged  enough  already.  But 
I  took  him  across  the  muzzle  with  my  staff ;  and  I 
think  you  may  have  heard  him  yelp,  even  thus  far 
off. 

Philemon  (watching  Quicksilvers  light  move- 
ments), I  used  to  be  light-footed  in  my  youth ;  but 
I  always  found  my  feet  grew  heavier  toward  night- 
fall. 

Quicksilver.  There  is  nothing  like  a  good  staff 
to  help  one  along ;  and  I  happen  to  have  an  excel- 
lent one,  as  you  see. 

Philemon,  A  curious  piece  of  work,  sure  enough! 
A  staff  with  wings !  It  would  be  an  excellent  kind 
of  stick  for  a  little  boy  to  ride  astride  of.  Friends,  sit 
down  and  rest  yourselves  here  on  this  bench.  My 
good  wife  Baucis  has  gone  to  see  what  you  can 
have  for  supper.  We  are  poor  folks ;  but  you 
shall  be  welcome  to  whatever  we  have  in  the  cup- 
board. 

Jupiter.  Was  there  not  a  lake,  in  very  ancient 
times,  covering  the  spot  where  now  stands  yonder 
village } 

Philemon,  Not  in  my  day,  friend,  and  yet  I  am 
an  old  man,  as  you  see.  There  were  always  the 
fields  and  meadows,  just  as  they  are  now,  and  the  old 
trees,  and  the  little  stream  murmuring  through  the 
midst  of  the  valley.  My  father,  nor  his  father  be- 
fore him,  never  saw  it  otherwise,  so  far  as  I  know ; 


Ii8  THE    MIRACULOUS   PITCHER 

and  doubtless  it  will  still  be  the  same,  when  old 
Philemon  shall  be  gone  and  forgotten. 

Jupiter.  That  is  more  than  can  be  safely  fore- 
told. Since  the  people  in  yonder  village  have 
forgotten  to  have  sympathy,  it  were  better  that  the 
lake  should  be  rippling  over  their  dwellings  again  ! 

Philemon  {to  Quicksilver).  Pray,  my  young 
friend,  what  may  I  call  your  name  ? 

Quicksilver.  Why,  I  am  very  nimble,  as  you 
see ;  so  if  you  call  me  Quicksilver,  the  name  will  fit  me. 

Philemon.  Quicksilver?  Quicksilver?  It  is  a 
very  odd  name !  And  your  companion  there  ? 
Has  he  as  strange  a  one? 

Quicksilver.  You  might  ask  the  thunder  to  tell 
it  to  you.     No  other  voice  is  loud  enough. 

[Baucis  comes  in  and  announces  that  the  meal  is 

ready.'] 

Baucis.  Had.  we  known  you  were  coming,  my 
good  man  and  myself  would  have  gone  without  a 
morsel,  rather  than  you  should  lack  a  better  supper. 
But  I  took  the  most  part  of  the  day's  milk  to  make 
cheese ;  and  our  last  loaf  is  already  half  eaten.  Ah 
me!  I  never  feel  the  sorrow  of  being  poor  save 
when  a  poor  traveler  knocks  at  our  door. 

Jupiter.  All  will  be  very  well  ;  do  not  trouble 
yourself,  my  good  dame.  An  honest,  hearty  wel- 
come to  a  guest  can  turn  food  into  nectar  and  am- 
brosia. 


THE   MIRACULOUS   PITCHER  1 19 

Baucis.  A  welcome  you  shall  have,  and  likewise 
a  little  honey  that  we  happen  to  have  left,  and  a 
bunch  of  purple  grapes  besides. 

Quicksilver  {laughing).  Why,  Mother  Baucis,  it 
is  a  feast !  an  absolute  feast !  and  you  shall  see  how 
bravely  I  will  play  my  part  at  it!  I  think  I  never 
felt  hungrier  in  my  life. 

Baucis  {whispering  to  Philemon),  Mercy  on  us ! 
If  the  young  man  has  such  a  terrible  appetite,  I  am 
afraid  there  will  not  be  half  enough  supper ! 

SCENE   II  ♦ 

As  Baucis  had  said,  there  was  but  a  scanty  supper  for  two  hun- 
gry travelers.  In  the  middle  of  the  table  was  the  remnant  of  a 
brown  loaf,  with  a  piece  of  cheese  on  one  side  of  it,  and  a  dish  of 
honeycomb  on  the  other.  There  was  a  pretty  good  bunch  of 
grapes  for  each  of  the  guests.  A  moderately  sized  earthen 
pitcher,  nearly  full  of  milk,  stood  at  a  corner  of  the  board ;  and 
when  Baucis  had  filled  two  bowls  and  set  them  before  the  strangers, 
only  a  little  milk  remained  in  the  bottom  of  the  pitcher. 

Quicksilver,  A  little  more  milk,  kind  Mother 
Baucis,  if  you  please.  The  day  has  been  hot,  and  I 
am  very  much  athirst. 

Baucis,  Now,  my  dear  people,  I  am  so  sorry  and 
ashamed !  But  the  truth  is,  there  is  hardly  a  drop 
more  milk  in  the  pitcher.  Oh,  Philemon !  Phile- 
mon!  why  didn't  we  go  without  our  supper.? 

Quicksilver,  Why,  it  appears  to  me  that  matters 
are  not  quite  so  bad  as  you  think.  Here  is  certainly 
more  milk  in  the  pitcher. 


I20  THE   MIRACULOUS   PITCHER 

Baucis  {aside).  I  am  old  and  apt  to  be  forgetful. 
I  suppose  I  must  have  made  a  mistake.  At  all 
events,  the  pitcher  cannot  help  being  empty  now, 
after  filling  the  bowls  twice  over. 

Quicksilver.  What  excellent  milk  !  Excuse  me, 
my  kind  hostess,  but  I  must  really  ask  you  for  a 
little  more. 

\_Baucis,  in  great  amazement^  pours  from  the  appar-- 
ently  empty  pitcher  so  much  milk  that  it  over- 
flows the  bowls  upon  the  table^ 

Quicksilver.  And  now  a  slice  of  your  brown  loaf, 
Mother  Baucis,  and  a  little  of  that  honey. 

Baucis  {aside  to  Philemon).  Did  you  ever  hear 
the  like } 

Philemon.  No,  I  never  did,  and  I  rather  think 
you  have  been  walking  about  in  a  sort  of  dream. 
If  I  had  poured  out  the  milk,  I  should  have  seen 
through  the  business  at  once.  There  happened  to 
be  a  little  more  in  the  pitcher  than  you  thought,  that 
is  all. 

Baucis.  Ah,  Philemon,  say  what  you  will,  these 
are  very  uncommon  people. 

Philemon.  Well,  well,  perhaps  they  are.  They 
certainly  do  look  as  if  they  had  seen  better  days  ; 
and  I  am  heartily  glad  to  see  them  making  so  com- 
fortable a  supper. 

Quicksilver.  Very  admirable  grapes  these  !  Pray, 
my  good  host,  whence  did  you  gather  them  ? 


THE    MIRACULOUS   PITCHER  121 

Philemon.  From  my  own  vine.  You  may  see 
one  of  its  branches  twisting  across  the  window 
yonder.  But  Baucis  and  I  never  thought  the  grapes 
very  fine  ones. 

Quicksilver,  I  never  tasted  better.  Another 
cup  of  this  deHcious  milk,  if  you  please,  and  I  shall 
then  have  supped  better  than  a  prince. 

\Philenion  finds  the  pitcher  empty,  as  he  expects,  but  as 
he  lifts  it,  it  fills  with  creamy  milkJ] 

Philemon.  Who  are  ye,  wonder-working  stran- 
gers ? 

Jupiter.  Your  guests,  my  good  Philemon,  and 
your  friends.  Give  me  likewise  a  cup  of  the  milk ; 
and  may  your  pitcher  never  be  empty  for  kind 
Baucis  and  yourself,  any  more  than  for  the  needy 
wayfarer. 

Philemon  (aside  to  Quicksilver).  How  under  the 
sun  could  a  fountain  of  milk  get  into  this  old  earthen 
pitcher  1 

Quicksilver  {pointing  to  his  staff).  There  is  the 
whole  mystery  of  the  affair ;  and  if  you  can  make  it 
out,  I'll  thank  you  to  let  me  know.  I  can't  tell  what 
to  make  of  my  staff.  It  is  always  playing  such  odd 
tricks  as  this;  sometimes  getting  me  a  supper,  and 
quite  as  often  stealing  it  away.  If  I  had  any  faith 
in  such  nonsense,  I  should  say  the  stick  was  be- 
witched ! 

\^All  four  walk  out  toward  the  village^ 


122  THE    MIRACULOUS   PITCHER 

Philemon,  Ah  me  !  Well-a-day !  If  our  neighbors 
only  knew  what  a  blessed  thing  it  is  to  show  hospi- 
tality to  strangers,  they  would  tie  up  all  their  dogs, 
and  never  allow  their  children  to  fling  another  stone. 

Baucis.  It  is  a  sin  and  a  shame  for  them  to  be- 
have so  —  that  it  is!  And  I  mean  to  go  and  tell 
some  of  them  what  naughty  people  they  are. 

Quicksilver.  I  fear  that  you  will  find  none  of 
them  at  home. 

Jupiter.  When  men  do  not  feel  towards  the 
humblest  stranger  as  if  he  were  a  brother,  they  are 
unworthy  to  exist  upon  the  earth. 

Quicksilver.  And,  by  the  by,  my  dear  old  people, 
where  is  this  same  village  that  you  talk  about .f* 
Oh  which  side  of  us  does  it  lie.^^  Methinks  I  do 
not  see  it. 

\_Baucis  and  Philemon  are  asto7tished  to  see  that  the 
entire  village  is  covered  with  water7\ 

Baucis.  Alas !  what  has  become  of  our  poor 
neighbors? 

Jupiter.  They  exist  no  longer  as  men  and 
women.  There  was*neither  use  nor  beauty  in  such 
a  life  as  theirs. 

Quicksilver.  As  for  those  foolish  people,  they 
are  all  transformed  to  fishes.  They  needed  but 
little  change,  for  they  were  already  a  scaly  set  of 
rascals,  and  the  coldest-blooded  beings  in  existence. 

Jupiter.     As   for  you,  good   Philemon,  and   you, 


THE   MIRACULOUS   PITCHER  123 

kind  Baucis,  you,  with  your  scanty  means,  have 
mingled  so  much  heartfelt  hospitality  with  your 
entertainment  of  the  homeless  stranger  that  the 
milk  became  a  fount  of  nectar,  and  the  brown  loaf 
and  the  honey  were  ambrosia.  Thus,  the  gods 
have  feasted  at  your  board  off  the  same  viands  that 
supply  their  banquets  on  Olympus.  You  have  done 
well,  my  dear  old  friends.  Request  whatever  favor 
you  wish  most,  and  it  is  granted. 

Philemon.  Let  us  live  together  w^hile  we  live  and 
leave  the  world  at  the  same  instant  when  we  die. 

Jupiter.  Be  it  so !  Now  look  towards  your 
cottage ! 

[  They  see  in  place  of  their  cottage  a  tall  building  of 
white  marble^ 

Jupiter.  There  is  your  home.  Show  your  hos- 
pitality in  yonder  palace  as  freely  as  in  the  poor 
hovel  to  which  you  welcomed  us  last  evening. 

From  "The  Miraculous  Pitcher,"  by  Nathaniel  Hawthorne  (adapted). 
Bau'cis.  Phi  le'mon. 


PANDORA'S    BOX 

Long  ago,  when  the  world  was  young,  there  was  a  youth  called 
Epimetheus.  He  was  very  lonely  because  there  were  so  few  people 
in  the  world ;  and  so  the  gods  and  goddesses  sent  a  lovely  little 
girl,  called  Pandora,  to  be  his  playfellow  and  helpmate. 

The  first  thing  that  Pandora  saw  when  she  entered  the  cottage 
where  Epimetheus  dwelt  was  a  great  box,  fastened  by  a  very  curi- 
ously tied  and  twisted  gold  cord. 

SCENE   I 

{Pandora 
Epimetheus 
Hope 

Pandora.  Epimetheus,  what  have  you  in  that 
box.f* 

Epimetheus.  My  little  Pandora,  that  is  a  secret, 
and  you  must  he  kind  enough  not  to  ask  any  ques- 
tions about  it. 

Pandora.  But  who  gave  it  to  you  ?  And  where 
did  it  come  from  ? 

Epimetheus.     That  is  a  secret,  too. 

Pandora  {pouting).  How  provoking!  I  wish 
the  great  ugly  box  were  out  of  the  way ! 

Epimetheus.  Oh,  come,  don't  think  of  it  any 
more.     Let  us  run  out  of  doors  and  play. 

"5 


126  PANDORA'S   BOX 

Paitdora.  Whence  can  the  box  have  come? 
And  what  in  the  world  can  be  inside  of   it? 

Epimetheus.  Always  talking  about  this  box !  I 
wish,  Pandora,  you  would  try  to  talk  of  something 
else.  Come,  let  us  go  and  gather  some  ripe  figs, 
and  eat  them  under  the  trees  for  our  supper.  And 
I  know  a  vine  that  has  the  sweetest  and  juiciest 
grapes  you  ever  tasted. 

Pandora  (crossly).  Always  talking  about  grapes 
and  figs ! 

Epimetheus.  Well,  then,  let  us  run  out  and  have 
a  merry  time. 

Pandora  (crossly).  I  am  tired  of  merry  times, 
and  don't  care  if  I  never  have  any  more !  This 
ugly  box !  I  am  so  taken  up  with  thinking  about 
it.  I  insist  upon  your  telling  me  what  is  inside 
of  it. 

Epimetheus  (vexed).  As  I  have  already  said,  fifty 
times  over,  I  do  not  know!  How,  then,  can  I  tell 
you  what  is  inside  ? 

Pandora.  You  might  open  it,  and  then  we  could 
see  for  ourselves. 

Epimetheus.     Pandora,  what  are  you  thinking  of  ? 

Pandora,  At  least,  you  can  tell  me  how  it  came 
here. 

Epimetheus.  It  was  left  at  the  door,  just  before 
you  came,  by  a  person  who  looked  very  smiling  and 
intelligent  and  could  hardly  keep  from  laughing  as 
he  put  it  down.     He  was  dressed  in  an  odd  kind  of 


PANDORA^S   BOX  127 

cloak,  and  had  on  a  cap  that  seemed  to  be  made 
partly  of  feathers,  so  that  it  looked  as  if  it  had 
wings. 

Pandora.     What  sort  of  staff  had  he  ? 

Epimetheus.  Oh,  the  most  curious  staff  you  ever 
saw !  It  was  like  two  serpents  twisting  around  a 
stick,  and  was  carved  so  naturally  that  I,  at  first, 
thought  the  serpents  were  alive. 

Pandora.  I  know  him.  Nobody  else  has  such 
a  staff.  It  was  Quicksilver;  and  he  brought  me 
hither  as  well  as  the  box.  No  doubt  he  intended 
it  for  me;  and  most  probably  it  contains  pretty 
dresses  for  me  to  wear,  or  toys  for  you  and  me  to 
play  with,  or  something  very  nice  for  us  both  to  eat. 

Epimetheus.  Perhaps  so.  But  until  Quicksilver 
comes  back  and  tells  us  so,  we  have  neither  of  us 
any  right  to  lift  the  lid  of  the  box. 

\Epimetheus  runs  out . 

Pandora.  What  a  dull  boy  he  is !  I  do  wish  he 
had  a  little  more  enterprise !  {Looking  at  the  knot 
of  gold  cord  that  fastens  the  box.)  I  really  believe 
that  I  begin  to  see  how  it  was  done.  Perhaps  I 
could  tie  it  up  again  after  undoing  it.  There  would 
be  no  harm  in  that,  surely.  Even  Epimetheus  would 
not  blame  me  for  that.  I  need  not  open  the  box, 
and  should  not,  of  course,  without  the  foolish  boy's 
consent,  even  if  the  knot  were  untied.  I  think  I 
could  untie  it.  I  am  resolved,  at  least,  to  find  the 
two  ends  of  the  cord. 


128  PANDORA'S   BOX 

[She  gives  the  knot  a  little  pull,  and  it  untwines  itself 

as  if  by  magic,'] 
This  is  the  strangest  thing  I  ever  knew!  What 
will  Epimetheus  say?  And  how  can  I  possibly  tie 
it  up  again  ?  When  he  finds  the  knot  untied,  he 
will  know  that  I  have  done  it.  How  shall  I  make 
him  believe  that  I  have  not  looked  into  the  box? 
[Pandora  thinks  she  hears  something  inside  the  box^ 
What  can  it  be  ?  Is  there  something  alive  in  the 
box?  Well!  —  yes!  —  I  am  resolved  to  take  just 
one  peep!  Only  one  peep;  and  then  the  lid  shall 
be  shut  down  as  safely  as  ever!  There  cannot 
possibly  be  any  harm  in  just  one  little  peep ! 

As  Pandora  raised  the  lid,  the  cottage  grew  very  dark  and  dis- 
mal, and  a  sudden  swarm  of  winged  creatures  flew  out  from  the 
box.  They  were  ugly  little  shapes  with  bats'  wings  and  terribly 
long  stings  in  their  tails.  Pandora  began  to  scream  and  cry,  for 
the  creatures  stung  her,  and,  try  hard  as  she  could,  she  could  not 
quite  shut  the  box  again.  Suddenly  she  heard  the  voice  of  Epi- 
metheus, 

Epimetheus.  Oh,  I  am  stung!  I  am  stung! 
Naughty  Pandora !  why  have  you  opened  this 
wicked  box  ? 

[Suddenly  there  is  a  gentle  tap  on  the  inside  of  the 
box  cover^ 

Pandora,  What  can  that  be  ?  Who  are  you  ? 
Who  are  you,  inside  of  this  naughty  box  ? 

Hope,     Only  lift  the  lid,  and  you  shall  see. 

Pandora  (sobbing).     No,  no  I     I  have  had  enough 


PANDORA'S   BOX  129 

of  lifting  the  lid.  You  are  inside  of  the  box, 
naughty  creature,  and  there  you  shall  stay !  There 
are  plenty  of  your  ugly  brothers  and  sisters  already 
flying  about  the  world.  You  need  never  think  I 
shall  be  so  foolish  as  to  let  you  out ! 

Hope,  Ah,  you  had  much  better  let  me  out.  I 
am  not  like  those  naughty  creatures  that  have 
stings  in  their  tails.  They  are  no  brothers  and 
sisters  of  mine,  as  you  would  see  at  once,  if  you 
were  only  to  get  a  glimpse  of  me.  Come,  come, 
my  pretty  Pandora !     I  am  sure  you  will  let  me  out. 

Pandora.  Epimetheus,  have  you  heard  this  little 
voice  t 

Epimetheus.  Yes,  to  be  sure  I  have.  And  what 
of  it .? 

Pandora.     Shall  I  lift  the  lid  again  ? 

Epimetheus.  Just  as  you  please.  You  have 
done  so  much  mischief  already  that  perhaps  you 
may  as  well  do  a  little  more.  One  other  Trouble, 
in  such  a  swarm  as  you  have  set  adrift  about  the 
world,  can  make  no  very  great  difference. 

Pandora  (wiping  her  eyes).  You  might  speak  a 
little  more  kindly ! 

Hope.  Ah,  naughty  boy!  He  knows  he  is 
longing  to  see  me.  Come,  my  dear  Pandora,  lift 
up  the  lid.  I  am  in  a  great  hurry  to  comfort  you. 
Only  let  me  have  some  fresh  air,  and  you  shall  soon 
see  that  matters  are  not  quite  so  dismal  as  you 
think  them. 

KN.  DRAM.   READ.  —  9 


130  PANDORA'S   BOX 

Pandora.     Epimetheus,  come    what  may,  I   am 

resolved  to  open  the  box ! 

Epimetheus,     And,  as  the  lid  seems  very  heavy, 

I  will  help  you ! 

[  They  lift  the  lid  and  out  flies  a  sunny  and  smiling  lit- 
tle creature^  throwing  a  light  wherever  she  goes ^ 

Pandora.     Pray,  who  are  you,  beautiful  creature  ? 

Hope.  I  am  to  be  called  Hope.  And  because 
I  am  such  a  cheery  little  body,  I  was  packed  into 
the  box  with  that  swarm  of  ugly  Troubles.  Never 
fear !  we  shall  do  pretty  well,  in  spite  of  them  all. 

Pandoj^a.  Your  wino:s  are  colored  like  the  rain- 
bow !     How  very  beautiful ! 

Hope.  Yes,  they  are  like  the  rainbow,  because, 
glad  as  my  nature  is,  I  am  partly  made  of  tears  as 
well  as  smiles. 

Epimetheus.  And  will  you  stay  with  us  forever 
and  ever? 

Hope.  As  long  as  you  need  me,  —  and  that  will 
be  as  long  as  you  live  in  the  world,  —  I  promise 
never  to  desert  you.  There  may  come  times  when 
you  will  thfnk  I  have  utterly  vanished.  But  again 
and  again  and  again,  when  perhaps  you  least  dream 
of  it,  you  shall  see  the  glimmer  of  my  wings  on  the 
ceiling  of  your  cottage.  Trust  in  my  promise,  for 
it  is  true. 

Pandora  and  Epimetheus.     We  do  trust  you  ! 

From   "The   Paradise   of  Children,"   by   Nathaniel    Hawthorne 
(adapted). 


THE    POMEGRANATE    SEEDS 


SCENE   I 


Mother  Ceres 

Proserpina 

Pluto 

Servant 

Quicksilver 

Hecate 

Sea-nymph 

Phoebus 


Characters 


Mother  Ceres,  the  goddess  of  the  harvest,  was  very  fond  of  her 
daughter  Proserpina,  and  seldom  let  her  go  alone  into  the  fields. 
But  at  one  time  when  the  season  had  been  backward  and  Mother 
Ceres  was  very  busy,  she  put  on  her  turban,  made  of  poppies,  and 
got  into  her  car,  drawn  by  a  pair  of  winged  dragons,  and  was  just 
ready  to  start  off  alone,  when  Proserpina  came  running  up  to 
her. 

Proserpina.  Dear  mother,  I  shall  be  ver)^  lonely 
while  you  are  away.  May  I  not  run  down  to  the 
shore  and  ask  some  of  the  sea-nymphs  to  come  out 
of  the  waves  and  play  with  me } 

Ceres,  Yes,  child,  the  sea-nymphs  are  good  crea- 
tures, and  will  never  lead  you  into  any  harm.  But 
you  must  take  care  not  to  stray  away  from  them, 
nor  go  wandering  about  the  fields  by  yourself. 

131 


132  THE    POMEGRANATE   SEEDS 

\_Ceres  drives  off^  and  Proserpina  runs  to  play  with 
the  nymphs 7^ 

Sea-nymph.  Dear  Proserpina,  we  dare  not  go 
with  you  upon  the  dry  land.  We  are  apt  to  grow 
faint,  unless  at  every  breath  we  can  snuff  up  the 
salt  breeze  of  the  ocean.  And  don't  you  see  how 
careful  we  are  to  let  the  surf  wave  break  over  us 
every  moment  or  two,  so  as  to  keep  ourselves  com- 
fortably moist }  If  it  were  not  for  that,  we  should 
soon  look  like  bunches  of  uprooted  sea-weed  dried 
in  the  sun. 

Proserpina.  It  is  a  great  pity ;  but  do  you  wait 
for  me  here,  and  I  will  run  and  gather  my  apron 
full  of  flowers,  and  be  back  again  before  the  surf  has 
broken  ten  times  over  you.  I  long  to  make  you 
some  wreaths  that  shall  be  as  lovely  as  this  necklace 
of  many-colored  shells. 

Sea-nymph.  We  will  wait,  then.  But  while, you 
are  gone,  we  may  as  well  lie  down  on  a  bank  of  soft 
sponge  under  the  water.  The  air  to-day  is  a  little 
too  dry  for  our  comfort.  But  we  will  pop  up  our 
heads  every  few  minutes  to  see  if  you  are  coming. 

\_As  Proserpina  is  picking  flowers,  she  comes  upon  a 
most  beautiful  shrtib.  She  pulls  and  ptills 
up 071  it,  and  it  fljially  comes  up,  leaving  a  deep, 
black  hole.  From  this  hole  presently  come 
four  black  horses,  with  a  splendid  golden  char- 
iot whirling  at  their  heels.     In  the  chariot  sits 


THE    POMEGRANATE    SEEDS  T33 

a  man,  with  a  crown  on  his  head,  all  flaming 
with  diamonds^ 

Pluto  {to  Proserpina).  Do  not  be  afraid.  Come! 
Will  you  not  like  to  ride  a  little  way  with  me  in 
my  beautiful  chariot  ? 

Proserpina  {/rightefted).  Mother,  Mother  Ceres! 
Come  quickly  and  save  me. 

Pluto  {seizing  Proserpina  and  putting  her  into 
the  chariot).  Why  should  you  be  so  frightened,  my 
pretty  child  .f*  I  promise  not  to  do  you  any  harm. 
What !  You  have  been  gathering  flowers  1  Wait 
till  we  come  to  my  palace,  and  I  will  give  you  a 
garden  full  of  prettier  flowers  than  those,  all  made 
of  pearls  and  diamonds  and  rubies.  Can  you  guess 
who  I  am  '^.  They  call  my  name  Pluto,  and  I  am 
the  king  of  diamonds  and  all  other  precious  stones. 
Every  atom  of  the  gold  and  silver  that  lies  under 
the  earth  belongs  to  me,  to  say  nothing  of  the 
copper  and  iron,  and  of  the  coal  mines  which  supply 
me  with  abundance  of  fuel.  Do  you  see  this  splen- 
did crown  upon  my  head  t  You  may  have  it  for  a 
plaything.  Oh,  we  shall  be  very  good  friends,  and 
you  will  find  me  more  agreeable  than  you  expect, 
when  once  we  get  out  of  this  troublesome  sunshine. 

Proserpina.    Let  me  go  home  !    Let  me  go  home ! 

Pluto.  My  home  is  better  than  your  mother's. 
It  is  a  palace,  all  made  of  gold,  with  crystal  windows ; 
and  because  there  is  little  or  no  sunshine  the  apart- 


(134) 


Pluto  carries  Proserpina  to  his  Home 


THE   POMEGRANATE   SEEDS  135 

ments  are  lighted  with  diamond  lamps.  You  never 
saw  anything  half  so  magnificent  as  my  throne.  If 
you  like,  you  may  sit  down  on  it,  and  be  my  little 
queen,  and  I  will  sit  on  the  footstool. 

Proserpina  {sobbing).  I  don't  care  for  golden 
palaces  and  thrones.  Oh,  my  mother,  my  mother ! 
Carry  me  back  to  my  mother ! 

Pluto.  Pray  do  not  be  so  foolish,  Proserpina.  I 
offer  you  my  palace  and  my  crown,  and  all  the 
riches  that  are  under  the  earth  ;  and  you  treat  me 
as  if  I  were  doing  you  an  injury.  The  one  thing 
which  my  palace  needs  is  a  merry  little  maid,  to  run 
upstairs  and  down,  and  cheer  up  the  rooms  with 
her  smile.  And  this  is  what  you  must  do  for  King 
Pluto. 

Proserpina.  Never!  I  shall  never  smile  again 
till  you  set  me  down  at  my  mother's  door.  Is  it 
much  farther.^  And  will  you  carry  me  back  when 
I  have  seen  your  palace  .f^ 

Pluto.  We  will  talk  of -that  by  and  by!  We 
are  just  entering  my  dominions.  Do  you  see  that 
tall  gateway  before  us  ?  When  we  pass  those  gates 
we  are  at  home.  And  there  lies  my  faithful  dog  at 
the  threshold.  Cerberus!  Cerberus!  Come  hither, 
my  good  dog. 

\_An  ugly-looking^  three-headed,  serpent-tailed  monster 
comes  to  meet  them7\ 

Proserpina.  Will  the  dog  bite  me  '^,  What  an 
ugly  creature  he  is  I 


136  THE    POMEGRANATE   SEEDS 

Pluto.  Oh,  never  fear.  He  never  harms  people 
unless  they  try  to  enter  without  being  sent  for,  or  to 
go  away  when  I  wish  to  keep  them  here.  Down, 
Cerberus!  Now,  my  pretty  Proserpina,  we  will 
drive  on. 
[  They  soon  come  to  a  black,  muddy-looking  stream."] 

Pluto.  This  is  the  river  Lethe.  Is  it  not  a  very 
pleasant  stream  ? 

Proserpiiia.     I  think  it  is  a  very  dismal  one. 

Pluto.  It  suits  my  taste.  Its  water  has  a  very 
excellent  quality ;  for  a  single  draught  of  it  makes 
people  forget  every  care  and  sorrow  that  has  hith- 
erto tormented  them.  Only  sip  a  little  of  it,  my 
dear  Proserpina,  and  you  will  instantly  remember 
nothing  that  will  prevent  you  from  being  perfectly 
happy.  I  will  send  for  some  in  a  golden  goblet  the 
minute  we  arrive. 

Proserpina  {sobbing).  Oh,  no,  no,  no!  I  had  a 
thousand  times  rather  be  miserable  with  remember- 
ing my  mother  than  be  happy  in  forgetting  her. 
That  dear,  dear  mother !  I  never,  never  will  forget 
her. 

Pluto.  We  shall  see.  You  do  not  know  what 
fine  times  we  will  have  in  my  palace.  Here  we  are 
just  at  the  portal.  These  pillars  are  solid  gold. 
And  now  you  shall  have  some  of  that  water. 

Proserpina.  I  will  neither  drink  that  nor  any- 
thing else.  Nor  will  I  taste  a  morsel  of  food,  even 
if  you  keep  me  forever  in  your  palace. 


THE    POMEGRANATE   SEEDS  137 

Phi  to  (y  patting  her  cheek).  I  should  be  sorry  for 
that.  You  are  a  spoiled  child,  my  little  Proserpina; 
but  when  you  see  the  nice  things  which  my  cook 
will  make  for  you,  your  appetite  will  quickly  come 
again. 

SCENE   II 

When  Ceres  found  that  her  daughter  was  lost,  she  hurried  off  to 
make  inquiries  all  through  the  neighborhood.  But  nobody  told 
her  anything  by  which  she  could  guess  what  had  become  of  Pro- 
serpina. The  poor  mother  went  wandering  about  for  nine  long 
days  and  nights,  finding  no  trace  of  the  little  girl.  On  the  tenth 
day  she  discovered  Hecate,  an  ugly-looking  creature  sitting  in  a 
gloomy  cave. 

Ceres.  Oh,  Hecate,  if  ever  you  lose  a  daughter, 
you  will  know  what  sorrow  is.  Tell  me,  for  pity's 
sake,  have  you  seen  my  poor  child  Proserpina  pass 
by  the  mouth  of  your  cavern } 

Hecate  {sighing).  No,  no.  Mother  Ceres,  I  have 
seen  nothing  of  your  daughter.  But  my  ears  are 
made  in  such  a  way  that  all  cries  of  distress  all  over 
the  world  are  pretty  sure  to  make  their  way  to  them. 
Nine  days  ago,  as  I  sat  here  in  my  cave,  making 
myself  miserable,  I  heard  the  voice  of  a  young  girl 
shrieking  as  if  in  great  distress.  Something  terrible 
has  happened  to  the  child.  As  well  as  I  could 
judge,  a  dragon  or  some  other  cruel  monster  was 
carrying  her  away. 

Ceres.  You  kill  me  by  saying  so !  Where  was 
the  sound,  and  which  way  did  it  seem  to  go  ? 


138  THE   POMEGRANATE  SEEDS 

Hecate.  It  passed  very  swiftly  along,  and  at  the 
same  time  there  was  a  heavy  rumbling  of  wheels 
towards  the  eastward.  I  can  tell  you  nothing  more, 
except  that,  in  my  honest  opinion,  you  will  never 
see  your  daughter  again.  The  best  advice  I  can 
give  you  is  to  come  to  live  with  me  in  this  cavern, 
where  we  will  be  the  two  most  wretched  women  in 
the  world. 

Ceres.  Not  yet,  dark  Hecate.  But  do  you  first 
come  with  your  torch  and  help  me  to  seek  for  my 
lost  child.  And  when  there  shall  be  no  more  hope 
of  finding  her,  then,  if  you  will  give  me  room  to 
fling  myself  down,  either  on  these  withered  leaves 
or  on  the  naked  rock,  I  will  show  you  what  it  is  to 
be  miserable.  But  until  I  know  that  she  has  per- 
ished, I  will  not  allow  myself  space  even  to  grieve. 
There  is  one  person  who  must  have  seen  my  poor 
child,  and  can  doubtless  tell  what  has  become  of 
her.  Why  did  I  not  think  of  him  before  ?  It  is 
Phoebus. 

Hecate.  What,  the  young  man  that  always  sits 
in  the  sunshine  ?  Oh,  pray  do  not  think  of  going 
near  him.  He  is  a  gay  fellow,  and  will  only  smile 
in  your  face.  And  besides,  there  is  such  a  glare  of 
the  sun  about  him  that  he  will  quite  blind  my  poor 
eyes,  which  I  have  almost  wept  away  already. 

Ceres.  You  have  promised  to  be  my  companion. 
Come,  let  us  make  haste,  or  the  sunshine  will  be 
gone,  and  Phoebus  along  with  it. 


THE   POMEGRANATE   SEEDS  139 

\_T hey  find  Phoebus  playing  the  lyre  and  singing^ 
Ceres,     Phoebus !.     I    am    in    great    trouble,   and 
have  come  to  you  for  assistance.     Can  you  tell  me 
what  has  become  of  my  dear  child  Proserpina  ? 

Phoebus,  Proserpina?  Proserpina,  did  you  call 
her  name  ?  Ah,  yes,  I  remember  her  now.  A  very 
lovely  child,  indeed.  I  am  happy  to  tell  you,  my 
dear  madam,  that  I  did  see  the  little  Proserpina  not 
many  days  ago.  You  may  make  yourself  perfecdy 
easy  about  her.  She  is  safe,  and  in  excellent  hands. 
Ceres.  Oh,  where  is  my  dear  child  1 
Phoebus,  Why,  as  the  little  damsel  was  gather- 
ing flowers  she  was  suddenly  snatched  up  by  King 
Pluto  and  carried  off  to  his  kingdom.  I  have  never 
been  there,  but  the  royal  palace,  I  am  told,  is  built 
of  the  most  splendid  and  costly  materials.  Gold, 
diamonds,  pearls,  and  all  manner  of  precious  stones 
will  be  your  daughter's  playthings. 

Ceres.  Hush!  What  are  all  the  splendors  you 
speak  of  without  affection  ?  I  must  have  her  back 
again.  Will  you  go  with  me,  Phoebus,  to  demand 
my  daughter  of  this  wicked  Pluto  ? 

Phoebus.  Pray  excuse  me.  I  certainl}''  wish  you 
success,  but  I  am  not  on  the  best  of  terms  with 
King  Pluto.  To  tell  you  the  truth,  his  three- 
headed  mastiff  would  never  let  me  pass  the  gate- 
way ;  for  I  should  be  compelled  to  take  a  sheaf  of 
sunbeams  along  with  me,  and  those,  you  know,  are 
forbidden  in  Pluto's  kingdom. 


I40  THE   POMEGRANATE   SEEDS 

Ceres.  Ah,  Phoebus,  you  have  a  harp  instead  of 
a  heart.     Farewell. 

SCENE   III 

Place  :     In  Pluto's  palace 

For  days  and  days  Mother  Ceres  wandered  about  disconsolately, 
trying  in  vain  to  find  the  entrance  to  Pluto's  kingdom.  At 
length  in  her  despair  she  came  to  the  dreadful  resolution  that 
not  a  stalk  of  grain  nor  a  blade  of  grass  should  be  allowed  to 
grow  until  her  daughter  was  restored.  Finally  Quicksilver  was 
sent  in  haste  to  King  Pluto,  in  hopes  that  he  might  undo  the 
mischief  he  had  done. 

Pluto.  My  little  Proserpina,  I  wish  you  could  like 
me  better.  If  you  would  only  stay  with  me  of  your 
own  accord,  it  would  make  me  happier  than  the  pos- 
session of  a  hundred  such  palaces  as  this. 

Proserpina.  Ah,  you  should  have  tried  to  make 
me  like  you  before  carrying  me  off.  And  the  best 
thing  you  can  do  now  is  to  let  me  go  again.  Then 
I  m.ight  remember  you  sometimes,  and  think  that 
you  were  as  kind  as  you  knew  how  to  be.  Perhaps, 
too,  one  day  or  other,  I  might  come  back  and  pay 
you  a  visit. 

Pluto.  No,  no,  I  will  not  trust  you  for  that. 
You  are  too  fond  of  living  in  the  broad  daylight  and 
gathering  flowers.  What  an  idle  and  childish  taste 
that  is  !  Are  not  these  gems  w^hich  I  have  ordered 
to  be  dug  for  you,  and  which  are  richer  than  any  in 
my  crown,  —  are  they  not  prettier  than  a  violet  1 


THE    POMEGRANATE   SEEDS  141 

Proserpina.  Not  half  so  pretty.  O  my  sweet 
violets,  shall  I  never  see  you  again  ? 

Pluto.  Are  you  not  terribly  hungry  ?  Is  there 
nothing  which  I  can  get  you  to  eat? 

Proserpina.  No,  indeed.  Your  head  cook  is 
always  baking  and  stewing  and  roasting,  and  con- 
triving one  dish  or  another,  which  he  imagines  may 
be  to  my  liking.  But  he  might  just  as  well  save 
himself  the  trouble,  poor  fat  little  man  that  he  is.  I 
have  no  appetite  for  anything  in  the  world  unless  it 
were  a  slice  of  bread,  of  my  mother's  baking,  or  a 
little  fruit  out  of  her  garden. 

\_Phclo  sends  for  fruit ;  but  as  Mother  Ceres  has 
forbidden  anything  to  grow,  the  only  bit  of 
fruit  that  the  servant  can  find  is  a  withered 
pomegranate^ 

Servant.  Your  Majesty,  I  can  find  no  fruit  but 
this. 

Proserpina.  I  shall  not  touch  it.  If  I  were  ever 
so  hungry,  I  should  never  think  of  eating  such  a 
miserable,  dry  pomegranate  as  that. 

Servant.     It  is  the  only  one  in  the  world. 

Proserpina  [aside).     At  least  I  may  smell  it. 

\Proserpina  then  takes  one  bite  of  the  fruit  ^ 

Pluto  {entering).  My  little  Proserpina,  here  is 
Quicksilver,  who  tells  me  that  a  great  many  mis- 
fortunes have  befallen  innocent  people  on  account 
of  my  detaining  you  in   my  kingdom.      To   confess 


(142) 


Return  of  Proserpina 


THE    POMEGRANATE   SEEDS  143 

the  truth,  I  had  ah'eady  thought  that  it  was  wrong 
to  take  you  away  from  your  good  mother.  But,  my 
dear  child,  this  vast  palace  is  apt  to  be  gloomy,  and 
I  am  not  of  the  most  cheerful  disposition  ;  I  hoped 
you  would  take  my  crown  for  a  plaything  and  me 
for  a  playmate. 

Proserpina.  You  have  really  amused  me  very 
much  sometimes. 

Pluto.  Thank  you,  but  I  can  see  plainly  enough 
that  you  think  my  palace  a  dusky  prison,  and  me 
the  iron-hearted  keeper  of  it.  And  an  iron  heart  I 
should  surely  have,  if  I  could  detain  you  here  any 
longer,  my  poor  child,  when  it  is  now  six  months 
since  you  tasted  food.  I  give  you  your  liberty.  Go 
with  Quicksilver.     Hasten  to  your  dear  mother. 

Quicksilver  (tvhisperiug).  Come  along  quickly, 
or  his  Majesty  may  change  his  royal  mind.  And 
take  care,  above  all  things,  that  you  say  nothing  of 
what  was  brought  to  you  on  the  golden  salver. 

\They  hasten  away  toward  the  house  of  Mother 
Ceres,  who  is  sitting  disconsolately  on  her  door- 
steps holding  her  burning  torch.  Stiddenly  the 
flame  flickers  and  goes  out.~\ 

Ceres.  What  does  this  mean  ?  It  was  an  en- 
chanted torch,  and  should  have  burned  till  my  child 
came  back. 

\^As  she  lifts  her  eyes,  she  sees  the  brown  and  barren 
flelds  growing  green^ 


144  THE   POMEGRANATE    SEEDS 

Does  the  earth  disobey  me  ?  Does  it  dare  to  be 
green  when  I  have  bidden  it  be  barren  until  my 
daughter  shall  be  restored  to  my  arms  ? 

Proserpina  [running  to  her  mother  s  arms). 
Then  open  your  arms,  dear  mother,  and  take  your 
little  daughter  into  them. 

Ceres.  My  child,  did  you  taste  any  food  while 
you  were  in  King  Pluto's  palace  ? 

Proserpina.  Dearest  mother,  I  will  tell  you  the 
whole  truth.  Until  this  very  morning  not  a  morsel 
of  food  had  passed  my  lips.  But  to-day  they 
brought  me  a  pomegranate  (a  very  dr)^  one  it  was, 
and  all  shriveled  up,  till  there  was  little  left  of  it 
but  seeds  and  skin) ;  and,  having  seen  no  fruit  for 
so  long  a  time,  and  being  faint  with  hunger,  I  was 
tempted  just  to  bite  it.  The  instant  I  tasted  it 
King  Pluto  and  Quicksilver  came  into  the  room. 
I  had  not  swallow^ed  a  morsel;  but  —  dear  mother, 
I  hope  it  was  no  harm  —  but  six  of  the  pomegranate 
seeds,  I  am  afraid,  remained  in  my  mouth. 

Ceres.  Ah,  unfortunate  child  and  miserable  me ! 
For  each  of  those  six  pomegranate  seeds  you  must 
spend  one  month  of  every  year  in  King  Pluto's 
palace.  You  are  but  half  restored  to  your  mother. 
Only  six  months  with  me,  and  six  with  that  good- 
for-nothing  King  of  Darkness ! 

Proserpina.  Do  not  speak  so  harshly  of  poor 
King  Pluto.  I  really  think  I  can  bear  to  spend  six 
months  in  his  palace,  if  he  will  only  let  me  spend 


THE    POMEGRANATE   SEEDS  145 

the  other  six  with  you.  He  certainly  did  very 
wrong  to  carry  me  off ;  but  then,  as  he  says,  it  was 
a  dismal  sort  of  life  for  him  to  live  in  that  great 
gloomy  place  all  alone  ;  and  it  has  made  a  wonder- 
ful change  in  his  spirits  to  have  a  little  girl  to  run 
upstairs  and  down.  There  is  some  comfort  in 
making  him  happy ;  and  so,  upon  the  whole,  dearest 
mother,  let  us  be  thankful  that  he  is  not  to  keep  me 
the  whole  year  round. 

From  "The  Pomegranate  Seeds,"  by  Nathaniel  Hawthorne  (adapted). 

Ce'res  Phoe  bus  —  fe'bus 

Pro  ser'pl  na  Hec'a  te 


KN.  DRAM.  READ.- 


(146) 


Valjean  robs  the  Bishop 


JEAN   VALJEAN  AND  THE  BISHOP 

SCENE  I 
Place  :   The  Bishop's  house 

!The  Bishop 
Jean  Valjean,  an  escaped  convict 
Madam  Magloire,  the  Bishop's   housekeeper 

The  Bishop's  housekeeper  had  been  telHng  him  of  the  pres- 
ence of  suspicious  prowlers  in  town,  and  had  been  urging  the  need 
of  new  bolts  on  the  doors.  Suddenly  there  was  a  knock  at  the 
door. 

Bishop,     Come  in ! 

\_T/ie  door  opens,  and  a  rough-looking  fellow  enters 
milh  a  pack  on  his  back^ 

Jean  Valjean.  I  am  going  to  give  you  this 
straight.  My  name  is  Jean  Valjean.  I  am  a  re- 
leased convict,  having  spent  nineteen  years  in  the 
hulks.  I  was  let  out  four  days  ago  and  have  been 
footing  it  these  four  days.  I  have  done  twelve 
leagues  this  day.  No  one  will  harbor  me  any- 
where. I  rapped  at  the  jail,  and  the  warder  would 
not  open  to  me.  I  crept  into  a  dog  kennel  and  the 
beast  snapped  at  me.  I  went  into  the  fields  to 
sleep  under  the  stars,  but  there  were  none ;  and, 
thinking  that  it  would  rain,  I  returned  into  town  to 

H7 


148  JEAN   VALJEAN   AND   THE   BISHOP 

find  some  doorway  to  snooze  in.  Across  the  square 
I  lay  on  a  stone,  when  a  good  woman  pointed  to 
your  house  and  said,  "  Knock  at  that  door."  I  have 
knocked.  What  is  this  house  ?  A  kind  of  hotel  ? 
I  have  money.  I  am  very  hungry.  Will  you  let 
me  stay  ? 

Bishop.     Madam   Magloire,  bring  another  plate. 

Jea7i  Valjean.  Stop,  you  haven't  got  this  right. 
Did  you  not  hear  t  I  am  a  jail  bird,  a  galley  slave, 
fresh  from  the  prison.  {Pulling  a  large  sheet  of 
paper  from  his  pocket ^j  This  is  my  leave  to  travel. 
It  leads  to  my  being  kicked  out  wherever  I  show 
myself.  Hark  ye  !  "  Jean  Valjean,  released  con- 
vict, born  at"  —  oh,  you  don't  care  for  that? 
"  Nineteen  years  in.  Five  for  burglary  and  theft. 
Fourteen  for  trying  four  times  to  get  out."  There ! 
Will  you  receive  me  ?  Will  you  give  me  meat  and 
a  bed }     A  stable  will  do  for  me. 

Bishop,  Madam  Magloire,  air  the  sheets  on  the 
alcove  bed.  Monsieur,  take  a  seat  and  warm  your- 
self. We  are  just  sitting  down  to  supper,  and  while 
you  are  having  yours,  your  bed  will  be  got  ready. 

Jean  Valjean.  Is  this  so.^  What,  you  will  keep 
me?  You  do  not  drive  me  out,  —  a  jail  bird?  You 
call  me  "monsieur"  and  do  not  talk  as  to  a 
dog.  Oh,  what  a  trump  that  good  soul  was  who 
told  me  to  apply  here !  I  am  going  to  have  supper, 
did  you  say?  And  a  bed,  with  real  sheets  and  a 
mattress,  like  all  the  rest  of  the  world  but  us?     It 


JEAN  VAL JEAN   AND   THE   BISHOP  149 

IS  nigh  twenty  years  since  I  slept  in  a  bed.  Well, 
you  are  first-class  folk.  I  really  have  money,  and  I 
can  pay  anything  you  say.  You  are  an  honest  gen- 
tleman.    A  kind  of  hotel-keeper,  eh? 

Bishop.     I  am  a  priest  who  is  living  here. 

Jean  Valjean,  A  priest !  I  reckon  you  are  the 
parish  priest,  the  priest  of  that  big  church.  What 
a  fool  I  am  not  to  have  noticed  your  skull-cap.  You 
are  humane;  you  do  not  hold  me  in  scorn.  Then 
you  do  not  wish  me  to  pay? 

Bishop,  No,  keep  your  money.  How  much  did 
you  say  it  was? 

Jean  Valjeaft.  One  hundred  and  nine  francs  fif- 
teen sous. 

Bishop.     How  long  were  you  earning  so  much? 

Jea?i   Valjean.     Nineteen  years. 

Bishop  {with  a  sigh).  Nineteen  years !  {Shut- 
ting the  outside  door) 

Jean  Valjean.  Master  priest,  you  are  kind.  You 
do  not  scorn  me.  You  welcome  me  in  your  own 
home.  You  light  up  your  candles  in  my  honor. 
Yet  I  did  not  keep  from  you  what  I  am. 

Bishop.  You  needed  not  to  have  told  me  who 
you  were.  This  is  not  my  house,  but  Jesus  Christ's. 
This  door  does  not  want  him  who  enters  to  bear  a 
name,  but  to  bear  a  sorrow.  You  suffer ;  you  are 
a-hungered  and  a-thirst;  verily  you  are  welcome. 
And  thank  me  not ;  do  not  say  that  I  am  making 
you  at  home  in  my  house.     All   that  is  herein   is 


150  JEAN  VALJEAN  AND   THE   BISHOP 

yours.  What  need  have  I  to  know  your  name? 
Besides,  before  you  spoke  it,  I  knew  who  you  were. 

Jea7i  Valjean.     Really?     You  knew  my  name? 

Bishop.     Yes,  you  are  my  brother. 

Jea7i  Valjean.     What  a  queer  thing ! 

Bishop.     You  had  a  very  hard  time  of  it? 

Jean  Valjean.  Sure !  In  a  red  cassock,  with  a 
cannon-ball  chained  to  the  heel,  a  board  to  sleep  on, 
heat  and  cold,  work,  the  warders  with  canes !  For 
a  word  they  throw  you  into  the  black  hole  !  If  you 
fall  sick,  the  same  bed,  and  the  chain  still  on.  Nine- 
teen years  of  it !  I  am  forty-six  now.  And  the  re- 
lease pass  at  last ! 

Bishop,  Yes,  you  come  forth  from  a  house  of 
sorrows.  Listen  to  me.  There  is  more  joy  in  heaven 
over  the  tear-wet  face  of  one  repentant  sinner  than 
over  the  snowy  robes  of  the  hundred  who  are  just. 
If  you  come  out  of  that  doleful  place  with  angry  and 
hateful  thoughts  toward  your  fellow-men,  you  are 
deserving  of  pity ;  and  if  with  those  of  peace,  meek- 
ness, and  loving-kindliness,  then  you  are  a  better 
man  than  any  of  us.     But  now  let  us  to  the  table. 

\The  Bishop  seats  Jeajt  at  his  right  hand^  like  an 
honored  guest^ 

Jea7i  Valjean  {eating  hungrily).  Father,  all  this 
is  downright  too  kind  to  me,  but  I  am  bound  to  say 
that  those  carters  who  would  not  let  me  have  a 
snack  with  them  live  a  great  deal  better  than  you. 


JEAN   VALJEAN   AND    THE   BISHOP  151 

Bishop.     They  work  harder  than  I  do. 

Jean  Valjean.  No,  that  is  not  it,  but  they  get 
more  money.  I  can  clearly  see  that  you  are  poor. 
I  am  afraid  you  are  not  even  the  parish  priest.  Are 
you  not  his  deputy  ?  Ah,  if  Heaven  played  us  square, 
you  ought  to  be  the  full-blown  priest  here. 

Bishop.  Our  good  God  is  more  than  square. 
Monsieur  Jean  Valjean,  did  you  not  say  you  were 
going  to  Pontarlier  ? 

Jean  Valjean.  Aye,  and  obliged  to  stick  to  a 
route  laid  down.  You  see  I  shall  have  to  take  to 
the  road  at  daybreak  to-morrow.  Traveling  is 
pretty  rough. 

Bishop.  Monsieur,  you  must  w^ant  to  go  to  bed. 
If  you  are  ready,  sir,  I  will  show  you  to  your  bed- 
room. I  hope  you  will  have  a  good  night.  Before 
you  start  in  the  morning  I  shall  have  a  bowl  of  new 
milk  for  you. 

Jean  Valjean.  Thank  you,  master  priest.  But 
come,  come,  is  it  a  fact  that  you  make  me  at  home 
like  this?  Have  you  thought  the  thing  over? 
How  are  you  to  know  but  that  I  have  committed 
murder? 

Bishop.  That  is  the  concern  of  our  good  God. 
Good  night. 

Jean  Valjean  —  Zhan   Vail  zhan 
Magloire  —  Ma  gluar 


152  JEAN   VALJEAN   AND    THE   BISHOP 

SCENE    II 


Characters  < 


'  Bishop 
Jean  Valjean 
Madam  Magloire 
Officer 


As  the  cathedral  clock  struck  two  Jean  Valjean  awoke.  He  had 
slept  four  hours,  and  his  weariness  was  gone.  He  started  to  his 
feet,  faltered  a  moment,  and  listened ;  all  was  silent  throughout 
the  house.  Jean  moved  with  precaution,  taking  care  not  to  knock 
against  the  furniture.  He  went  straight  to  the  plate  press.  The 
key  was  in  it ;  he  opened  it.  The  first  thing  he  saw  was  the  plate 
basket.  He  put  the  plate  in  his  sack,  opened  the  window,  jumped 
into  the  garden,  where  he  dropped  the  plate  basket,  leaped  over 
the  wall,  and  fled. 

At  sunrise  the  next  morning,  while  the  Bishop  was  strolling  in  his 
garden,  Madam  Magloire  came  running  out  to  him. 

Madam  Magloire.  My  lord  !  my  lord  !  does  your 
Highness  know  where  the  plate  basket  is.^^ 

Bishop.     Yes. 

Madam  Magloire.  The  Lord  be  thanked !  I 
did  not  know  whatever  had  become  of  it. 

[  The  Bishop  picks  up  the  basket  from  a  flower  bed 
and  hands  it  to  her^ 

Madam  Magloire.  Yes,  but  there  is  nothing  in 
it ;  where  is  the  plate  1 

Bishop,  Oh,  if  you  are  anxious  about  the  plate, 
I  cannot  give  you  any  information. 

Madam  Magloire.  Great  good  Heavens !  it  has 
been  stolen  !     That  man  who  was  here  last  night  took 


JEAN   VALJEAN   AND   THE   BISHOP  153 

it.  Look  at  the  wall !  There  is  the  way  he  went  ! 
The  abominable  rogue,  to  steal  our  silver ! 

Bishop,  In  the  first  place,  is  it  so  sure  a  thing  that 
this  silver  was  ours?  Too  long  and  wrongfully  have 
I  kept  this  silver.  It  belonged  to  the  poor.  And 
who  was  this  man  ?     Evidently  one  of  the  poor. 

Madam  Mag  loir e.  Alas !  I  am  not  speaking  on 
account  of  myself,  but  for  your  lordship.  What 
will  your  Highness  eat  off  of  now } 

Bishop.     How  now  !  are  there  no  pewter  platters  1 

Madam  Magloire.     But  pewter  has  a  smell. 

Bishop,     What  is  the  trouble  with  japanned  metal } 

Madam  Magloire,     It  has  a  tang. 

Bishop.     Well,  we  will  try  wooden  platters. 

Madam  Magloire  {aside).  The  idea  of  harboring 
such  a  fellow !  and  to  lodge  him  in  the  next  room ! 
But  what  a  blessing  that  he  only  committed  robbery  ! 
Good  gracious  !     I  am  all  of  a  flutter  to  think  of  it ! 

[  There  is  a  hiock  at  the  door  and  three  m.eii  enter^ 
holding  Jeaji  Valjean  by  the  collar^ 

Officer.     My  lord  — 

Jean  Valjean,  "My  lord,"  —  then  it  is  not  the 
parish  priest. 

Officer,     Silence  !  this  is  our  Bishop. 

Bishop.  Ah,  so  you  are  here  again  !  I  am  glad 
to  see  you,  for  you  omitted  to  take  the  candlesticks 
along  with  the  rest,  though  they  are  sterling  silver 
also,  so  that  the  lot  will  realize  you  a  round  two 


154  JEAN  VALJEAN   AND   THE   BISHOP 

hundred  francs.     Why  did  you  not  carry  them  off 
with  the  rest  of  the  service  ? 

\_Jea7i  Valjean  stares,  open-mouthed,  at  the  Bishop^ 

Officer.  Was  the  story  true,  then,  that  we  had 
from  this  man,  my  lord  ?  We  met  him  and  he 
seemed  to  be  on  the  run.  We  stopped  him  to  see 
what  was  his  Httle  game,  and  found  silver  plate  on 
him. 

Bishop.  I  suppose  that  he  told  you  that  it  was 
given  him  by  a  good  old  priest,  in  whose  house  he 
passed  the  night.  I  can  see  what  occurred.  And 
you  brought  him  back  to  verify  .^^  You  made  a 
mistake. 

Officer.  Does  your  lordship  mean  that  we  are  to 
let  him  go  ? 

Bishop,     Of  course. 

Jean  Valjean.  Is  this  true  that  they  are  letting 
me  go  1 

Officer.     Yes,  can't  you  hear  .^     You  are  let  off. 

Bishop.  But  this  time,  my  friend,  before  you  go, 
don't  forget  your  candlesticks.  Here  they  are ! 
( Valjean  seems  about  to  fai^it)  Now,  go  in  peace. 
By  the  way,  next  time  you  come,  do  not  use  the 
garden,  for  you  may  come  and  go  by  the  street 
door.  We  keep  it  on  the  latch  day  and  night. 
{Turning  to  the  police)  Gentlemen,  you  may  go. 
Jean  Valjean,  my  brother,  you  no  longer  belong  to 
evil,  but  unto  good.     It  is   your  soul  that  I  have 


JEAN  VALJEAN   AND   THE   BISHOP  155 

bought.     I  redeem  it  from  black  thoughts  and  the 
Spirit  of  Perdition,  and  I  offer  it  to  God. 


SCENE   III 

(Jean  Valjean 
Little  Gervais 
Priest 

Like  one  fleeing  from  himself,  Jean  Valjean  raced  out  of  the 
town.  All  day  inexpressible  thoughts  heaped  themselves  upon 
him.  Toward  evening  he  saw  a  little  Savoyard,  about  twelve  years 
old,  singing  as  he  skipped  along.  The  lad  stopped  now  and  then 
to  play  with  coin  which  he  had  in  his  hand.  Among  the  pieces 
was  a  forty-sous  piece.  Once  this  coin  rolled  out  of  his  hand 
and  into  the  thicket  where  Valjean  was  sitting. 

\_Jeaft  quickly  put  his  foot  on  the  silver  piece  ^ 

Gervais.     I  want  my  coin,  sir. 
•  Jean  Valjean.     Who  are  you  .^^ 

Gervais.     Little  Gervais. 

Jean  Valjean.     Be  off! 

Gervais.  Not  before  I  get  my  money.  My  coin, 
sir !  My  money  —  my  silver !  {Screaming.)  I  want 
my  money  —  my  iorty-sous  piece  f 

Jea7t  Valjean  {takino-  his  cudgel).     Who  is  there .^^ 

Gervais.  I,  sir,  Little  Gervais ;  give  me  back  my 
money,  if  you  please.  Lift  up  your  foot,  sir  !  please! 
Do  you  hear.?     Take  away  your  big  foot,  will  you  .f* 

Jean  Valjean.  What  1  are  you  still  here  }  Will 
you  be  off  .f* 


(156) 


Valjean  robs  Liri'LE  Gervais 


JEAN   VALJEAN   AND    THE    BISHOP  157 

\_Lillle  Gervais  runs  off ^  crying  bitterly .  For  a  long 
time  Jean  Valjean  sits  motionless,  gazing  into 
the  twilight  with  a  far-away  look.  Stiddenly  he 
springs  up  and  walks  rapidly  in  the  directio7i  in 
which  Gervais  has  run.'] 

Jean  Valjean  [shouting).  Little  Gervais  !  Little 
Gervais!  Little  Gervais!  {To  a  priest  who  ap- 
proaches) Did  you  see  a  boy  passing,  Father  ?  His 
name  is  Little  Gervais. 

Priest.     I  have  seen  nobody. 

Jean  Valjean  (giving  him.  two  Jivejranc  pieces). 
For  your  poor.  It  is  one  of  these  Savoyards,  you 
know,  a  little  chap  of  ten,  with  a  marmot  and  a 
hurdy-gurdy. 

Priest.     I  have  not  seen  him. 

\_Jean  Valjean.  Little  Gervais  !  Are  there  any 
villages  round  here  ?     Can't  you  tell  me  ? 

Priest.  According  to  what  you  say,  friend,  it  is 
one  of  those  foreign  boys  who  just  pass  through 
without  any  one's  knowing  them. 

Jean  Valjean  (giving  the  priest  two  more  Jii^e- 
franc  pieces).  For  your  poor!  Father,  have  me 
arrested  !     I  am  a  thief ! 

[  The  Priest  rides  off,  frightened. 

Jean  Valjean  (weeping  wildly).  I  am  a  villain! 
a  villain ! 

From  "Les  Miserables,"  by  Victor  Hugo  (adapted). 


^^^HBft?% 

W        ^Hff'                                          1 

C>5«) 


Scrooge  Aind  his  Nephew 


EBENEZER   SCROOGE'S 
CHRISTMAS 

Scrooge  was  a  squeezing,  wrenching,  grasping,  clutching,  covet- 
ous, old  sinner,  hard  and  sharp  as  flint.  The  cold  within  him 
froze  his  old  features,  nipped  his  pointed  nose,  shriveled  his  cheek, 
stiffened  his  gait,  made  his  eyes  red,  his  thin  lips  blue.  He 
carried  his  own  low  temperature  always  about  with  him  ;  he  iced  his 
office  in  the  dog  days,  and  didn't  thaw  it  one  degree  at  Christmas. 

Nobody  ever  stopped  him  in  the  street  to  say,  with  gladsome 
looks  :  "  My  dear  Scrooge,  how  are  you  ?  When  will  you  come  to 
see  me?"  No  beggars  implored  him  to  bestow  a  trifle;  no  chil- 
dren asked  him  what  it  was  o'clock.     But  what  did  Scrooge  care  ? 

SCENE    I 

f  Scrooge 
C/iatacfers  \  ^  ,    xt     u 

(  Scrooge  s  Nephew 

Place  :  Scrooge  s  ivareJiouse 
Time  :  Christmas  Eve 

Nephew.  A  merry  Christmas,  uncle.  God  save 
you ! 

Scrooge.     Bah !     Humbug ! 

Nephew,  Christmas  a  humbug,  uncle !  You 
don't  mean  that,  I  am  sure. 

Scrooge.  I  do.  "  Merry  Christmas ! "  What 
right  have  you  to  be  merry }     You're  poor  enough. 

Nephew.     Come^  then,  what  right  have  you  to  be 

159 


i6o  EBENEZER   SCROOGE'S   CHRISTMAS 

dismal  ?  What  reason  have  you  to  be  morose  ? 
You're  rich  enough. 

Scrooge.     Bah!     Humbug! 

Nephew,     Don't  be  cross,  uncle. 

Scrooge,  What  else  can  I  be,  when  I  live  in  such 
a  world  of  fools  as  this  ?  "  Merry  Christmas !  " 
Out  upon  merry  Christmas !  What's  Christmas 
time  to  you  but  a  time  for  paying  bills  without 
money ;  a  time  for  finding  yourself  a  year  older,  but 
not  an  hour  richer;  a  time  for  balancing  your  books 
and  having  every  item  in  'em  through  a  round 
dozen  of  months  presented  dead  against  you }  If 
I  could  work  my  will,  every  idiot  who  goes  about 
with  "Merry  Christmas"  on  his  lips  should  be 
boiled  with  his  own  pudding,  and  buried  with  a 
stake  of  holly  through  his  heart.     He  should ! 

Nephew  [pleadingly).     Uncle! 

Scrooge.  Nephew,  keep  Christmas  in  your  ow^n 
way,  and  let  me  keep  it  in  mine. 

Nephew.     Keep  it !     But  you  don't  keep  it ! 

Scrooge,  Let  me  leave  it  alone,  then.  Much 
good  may  it  do  you  !  Much  good  it  has  ever  done 
you  ! 

Nephew.  There  are  many  things  from  which  I 
might  have  derived  good,  by  which  I  have  not 
profited,  I  dare  say,  —  Christmas  among  the  rest. 
But  I  am  sure  I  have  always  thought  of  Christmas 
time,  when  it  has  come  round,  as  a  good  time,  —  a 
kind,  forgiving,  charitable,  pleasant  time ;  the  only 


EBENEZER   SCROOGE'S   CHRISTMAS  i6i 

time  in  the  year  when  men  and  women  seem  to  open 
their  shut-up  hearts  freely,  and  to  think  of  people 
below  them.  And,  therefore,  uncle,  though  Christ- 
mas has  never  put  a  scrap  of  gold  or  silver  in  my 
pocket,  I  believe  it  has  done  me  good,  and  will  do 
me  good ;  and  I  say,  God  bless  it !  Don't  be  angry, 
uncle.     Come  !     Dine  with  us  to-morrow. 

Scrooge.     Bah ! 

Nephew.  I  want  nothing  from  you.  I  ask  noth- 
ing of  you ;  why  cannot  we  be  friends  } 

Scrooge.     Good  afternoon  ! 

Nephew.  I  am  sorry,  with  all  my  heart,  to  find 
you  so  resolute.  We  have  never  had  any  quarrel  to 
which  I  have  been  a  party.  But  I  have  made  the 
trial  in  homage  to  Christmas,  and  I'll  keep  my 
Christmas  humor  to  the  last.  So  a  merry  Christmas, 
uncle  ! 

Scrooge.     Good  afternoon ! 

N'ephew.     And  a  happy  New  Year! 

Scrooge.     Good  afternoon ! 

SCENE   II 
Place  :  Scrooge  s  warehouse 

Characters  J  ,..  . 


1^  Visitor 


Visitor.  This  is  Scrooge  and  Marley's  ware- 
house, I  believe.  Have  I  the  pleasure  of  addressing 
Mr.  Scrooge  or  Mr.  Marley.f* 

KN.    DRAM.    READ.  —  I  I 


i62  EBENEZER   SCROOGE'S   CHRISTMAS 

Scrooge.  Mr.  Marley  has  been  dead  these  seven 
years.      He  died  seven  years  ago  this  very  night. 

Visitor  {takiiig  up  a  pen).  At  this  festive  season 
of  the  year,  Mr.  Scrooge,  it  is  desirable  that  we 
should  make  some  slight  provision  for  the  poor  and 
destitute,  who  suffer  greatly  at  the  present  time. 
Many  thousands  are  in  want  of  common  necessaries; 
hundreds  of  thousands  are  in  want  of  common  com- 
forts, sir.  . 

Scrooge.     Are  there  no  prisons  ? 

Visitor  {laying  down  the  pen).      Plenty  of  prisons. 

Scrooge.  And  the  workhouses.?  Are  they  still 
in  operation } 

Visitor.  They  are.  I  wish  I  could  say  they 
were  not. 

Scrooge.  The  Treadmill  and  the  Poor  Law  are 
in  full  vigor,  then  } 

Visitor.     Both  very  busy,  sir. 

Scrooge.  Oh!  I  was  afraid,  from  what  you  said 
at  first,  that  something  had  occurred  to  stop  them  in 
their  useful  course.     I'm  very  glad  to  hear  it. 

Visitor.  But  they  don't  furnish  Christian  cheer 
to  the  multitude.  So  a  few  of  us  are  trying  to  raise 
a  fund  to  buy  the  poor  some  meat  and  drink  and 
means  of  warmth.     What  shall  I  put  you  down  iox} 

Scrooge.     Nothing. 

Visitor.     You  wish  to  be  anonymous  ? 

Scrooge.  I  wish  to  be  left  alone.  Since  you  ask 
me  what   I  wish,  this  is  my  answer:     I  don't  make 


EBENEZER   SCROOGE'S   CHRISTxMAS  163 

merry  myself  at  Christmas,  and  I  can't  afford  to 
make  idle  people  merry.  I  help  to  support  the 
establishments  I  have  mentioned:  they  cost  enough; 
and  those  who  are  badly  off  must  go  there. 

Visitor.  Many  can't  go  there,  and  many  would 
rather  die. 

Scrooge.  If  they  would  rather  die,  they  had  better 
do  it  and  decrease  the  population.  Good  afternoon, 
sir. 

SCENE   III 
•    Place  :  Scrooge  s  home 
Time  :  Midnight,  Christmas  Eve 

1  Scrooge 
Spirit  (Ghost  of  Christmas  Past) 
Fezzwig 

• 

Just  as  the  clock  strikes  twelve  Scrooge  awakes,  startled,  and  sits 
up  in  bed.  The  curtains  of  his  bed  are  parted,  and  a  strange  fig- 
ure, looking  like  a  stunted  old  man,  appears.  It  wears  a  tunic  of 
the  purest  white,  and  has  a  branch  of  fresh  green  holly  in  its  hand. 

Scrooge.     Are  you  a  spirit,  sir.? 

Spirit,     I  am ! 

Scrooge.     Who  and  what  are  you } 

Spirit.     I  am  the  Ghost  of  Christmas  Past. 

Scrooge.     Long  past  1 

Spirit.     No.    Your  past. 

Scrooge.     What  business  brought  you  here .? 

Spirit,     Your  welfare.     Take  heed !     Rise !  and 


164  EBENEZER   SCROOGE'S   CHRISTMAS 

walk   with   me !     Come  !     [Going  toward  the   win- 
dow. ) 

Scrooge.     I  am  a  mortal  and  liable  to  fall. 

Spirit  [laying  his  hand  upon  Scrooge  s  heart). 
Bear  but  a  touch  of  my  hand  there,  and  you  shall  be 
upheld  in  more  than  this. 

\The  Spirit  and  Scrooge  pass  out  upon  an  opeii  coun- 
try road,  and  on,  and  on,  until  they  reach  a 
boarding  school,  which  they  enter."] 

Scrooge.  Good  Heaven !  I  was  bred  in  this 
place.     I  was  a  boy  here. 

Spirit.     You  recollect  the  place  ? 

Scrooge.  Remember  it !  I  could  walk  it  blind- 
fold. 

Spirit.  Strange  to  have  forgotten  it  for  so  many 
years !  Now  you  will  see  here  only  shadows  of  the 
things  that  have  beeri.  They  have  no  consciousness 
of  us.  See !  the  school  is  not  quite  deserted.  A 
solitary  child,  neglected  by  his  friends,  is  left  there 
still. 

Scrooge  {muttering).  I  wish  —  but  it's  too  late 
now. 

Spirit.     What  is  the  matter  .^^ 

Scrooge.  Nothing.  Nothing.  There  was  a  boy 
singing  a  Christmas  carol  at  my  door  last  night. 
I  should  like  to  have  given  him  something ;  that's 
all. 

Spirit  [smiling  thoughtfully).  Let  us  see  another 
Christmas. 


EBENEZER    SCROOGE'S    CHRISTMAS  165 

\_In  a  moment  they  have  left  the  school  behind  them 
and  are  in  the  city  agaifi  in  a  certain  ware- 
house, where  a  stout  old  gentleman  is  sitting 
at  a  high  desk.'] 

Spirit.     Do  you  know  this  place  ? 

Scrooge,  Know  it !  Wasn't  I  apprenticed  here  ? 
That's  old  Fezziwig!  Bless  his  heart;  it's  old  Fezzi- 
wig  alive  again  ! 

Fezziwig  {laughing  and  calling  in  a  jovial  tone). 
Yo  ho,  there!     Ebenezer!     Dick! 

Scrooge  [aside).  Dick  Wilkins,  to  be  sure.  Bless 
me,  yes.  There  he  is.  He  was  very  much  attached 
to  me,  was  Dick.     Poor  Dick !     Poor  dear  ! 

Fezziwig.  Yo  ho,  my  boys.  No  more  work  to- 
night. Christmas  Eve,  Dick.  Christmas,  Eben- 
ezer. Let's  have  the  shutters  up  before  a  man  can 
say,  "  Jack  Robinson."  Clear  away,  my  lads,  and 
let's  have  lots  of  room  here  !  Hilli-ho,  Dick !  Chir- 
rup, Ebenezer  I 

[Suddenly  people poiir  into  the  warehouse  and  spend 
a  merry  hour  in  dancing  and  games,  Scrooge 
and  the  Spirit  watch  the  fun^ 

Spirit.  A  small  matter,  to  make  these  silly  folks 
so  full  of  gratitude! 

Scrooge.     Small  1 

Spirit.  Why!  Is  it  not.^  He  has  spent  but  a 
few  pounds,  —  three  or  four,  perhaps.  Is  that  so 
much  that  he  deserves  praise } 


l66  EBENEZER   SCROOGE'S   CHRISTMAS 

Scrooge.  It  isn't  that.  It  isn't  that,  Spirit.  He 
has  the  power  to  make  these  people  happy  or  un- 
happy ;  to  make  their  service  a  pleasure  or  a  toil. 
The  happiness  he  gives  is  quite  as  great  as  if  it  cost 
a  fortune  —     {Scrooge  stops  suddenly ?j 

Spirit.     What  is  the  matter  .^^ 

Scrooge,     Nothing  particular. 

Spirit,     Something,  I  think. 

Scrooge,  No,  no.  I  should  like  to  be  able  to 
say  a  word  or  two  to  my  clerk  just  now !  That's 
all ! 

SCENE   IV 

Time  :  Midnight,  Christmas  Eve 
Place  :  Scrooge  s  home 


Characters 


Scrooge 

Spirit  (Ghost  of  Christmas  Present) 

Mrs.  Cratchit 

Two  Young  Cratchits 

Bob  Cratchit 


\_A  waking  in  the  middle  of  a  prodigiously  tough 
siiore^  and  sitting  up  in  bed  to  get  his  thoughts 
together,  Scrooge  sees  upon  a  couch  a  jolly  giant. 
He  bears  a  glowing  torch,  like  a  horn  of  plenty^ 

Spirit,  I  am  the  Ghost  of  Christmas  Pres- 
ent. Look  upon  me.  You  have  never  seen  the 
like  of  me  before  1 

Scrooge,     Never. 


EBENEZER   SCROOGE'S   CHRISTMAS  167 

Spirit.  Have  you  never  walked  forth  with  the 
younger  members  of  my  family,  —  my  elder  brothers 
born  in  these  later  years  ? 

Scrooge.  I  don't  think  I  have.  I  am  afraid  I 
have  not.     Have  you  had  many  brothers,  Spirit  t 

Spirit.     More  than  eighteen  hundred. 

Scrooge.  A  tremendous  family  to  provide  for! 
Spirit,  conduct  me  where  you  will.  I  went  forth 
to-night  on  compulsion,  and  I  learned  a  lesson  which 
is  working  now.  If  you  have  aught  to  teach  me, 
let  me  profit  by  it. 

Spirit.     Touch  my  robe  ! 
\Scrooge  does  as  he  is  told  and  immediately  his  famil- 
iar room  and  its  surroundijigs  vanish,  and  he 
stands  in   the   kitchen  of  his  poor  clerk,  Bob 
Crate  hit  7\ 

Mrs.  Cratchit.  What  has  ever  got  your  precious 
father,  then  }  .  And  your  brother,  Tiny  Tim  ?  And 
Martha  wasn't  as  late  last  Christmas  Day  by  half  an 
hour. 

Martha.     Here's  Martha,  mother! 

Two  Young  Cratchits.  Here's  Martha,  mother! 
Hurrah  !     There's  such  a  goose,  Martha ! 

Mrs.  Cratchit.  Why,  bless  your  heart  alive,  my 
dear,  how  late  vou  are ! 

Martha.  We'd  a  deal  of  work  to  finish  up  last 
night,  and  had  to  clear  away  this  morning, 
mother. 

Mrs.  Cratchit.     Well,  never  mind  so  long  as  you 


(168) 


Bob  Ckatchit  and  Tiny  Tim 


EBENEZER    SCROOGE'S    CHRISTMAS  169 

are  come.     Sit  down  before  the  fire,  my  dear,  and 
have  a  warm,  —  Lord  bless  ye  ! 

Two  Young  Cratchits.  No  !  no !  There's  father 
coming!     Hide,  Martha,  hide  ! 

\Bob  Crate  hit  enters  with.  Tiny  Tim,  a  little  lame 
boy,  upon  his  shoulder^ 

Bob  Cratchit,     Why,  where's  our  Martha? 

Mrs,  Cratchit.     Not  coming. 

Bob  Cratchit.  Not  coming!  Not  coming  upon 
Christmas  Day!  Why,  —  ah,  here's  our  Martha 
now !     Come  here,  you  rogue ! 

Mrs,  Cratchit,  And  how  did  little  Tim  behave 
in  church  ? 

Bob  Cratchit,  As  good  as  gold,  —  and  better. 
Somehow  he  gets  thoughtful,  sitting  by  himself  so 
much,  and  thinks  the  strangest  things  you  ever 
heard.  He  told  me,  coming  home,  that  he  hoped 
the  people  saw  him  in  the  church,  because  he  was  a 
cripple,  and  it  might  be  pleasant  to  them  to  remem- 
ber upon  Christmas  Day  who  made  lame  beggars 
walk  and  blind  men  see. 

Scrooge,     Spirit,  tell  me  if  Tiny  Tim  will  live. 

Spirit.  I  see  a  vacant  seat  in  the  chimney  corner, 
and  a  crutch  without  an  owner,  carefully  preserved. 
If  these  shadows  remain  unaltered  by  the  future, 
the  child  will  die. 

Scrooge.  No,  no ;  oh,  no,  kind  Spirit !  Say  he 
will  be  spared ! 

Spirit,      If    these    shadows    are     unaltered     by 


lyo  EBENEZER   SCROOGE'S   CHRISTxMAS 

the  future,  none  other  of  my  race  will  find  him 
here. 

Bob  Cratchit,  Now,  my  dears,  I'll  give  you  a 
Christmas  toast.     Mr.  Scrooge  ! 

Mrs.  Cratchit,  Mr.  Scrooge,  indeed !  I  wish  I 
had  him  here.  I'd  give  him  a  piece  of  my  mind  to 
feast  upon,  and  I  hope  he'd  have  a  good  appetite 
for  it. 

Bob  Cratchit.  My  dear,  remember  the  children ! 
And  it's  Christmas  Day,  my  dear ! 

Mrs.  Cratchit.  It  should  be  Christmas  Day,  I  am 
sure,  on  which  one  drinks  the  health  of  such  an 
odious,  stingy,  hard,  unfeeling  man  as  Mr.  Scrooge. 
You  know  he  is,  Robert.  Nobody  knows  it  better 
than  you  do,  poor  fellow. 

Bob  Cratchit  (mildly).     My  dear,  Christmas  Day. 

Mrs.  Cratchit.  I'll  drink  his  health  for  your  sake 
and  the  day's,  not  for  his.  Long  life  to  him!  A 
Merry  Christmas  and  a  Happy  New  Year!  He'll 
be  very  merry  and  very  happy,  I  have  no  doubt. 

\Scrooge  suddenly  notices  that  the  Spirit  has  grown 
old  and  that  its  hair  is  gray.~\ 

Scrooge.     Are  spirits'  lives  so  short  .^ 

Spirit.  My  life  upon  this  globe  is  very  brief;  it 
ends  to-night. 

Scrooge.     To-night  .^ 

Spirit.  To-night  at  midnight.  Hark!  the  time 
is  drawing  near. 

Scrooge.     I  see  something  strange,  and   not   be- 


EBENEZER   SCROOGE'S   CHRISTMAS  171 

longing  to  yourself,  protruding  from  your  skirts.  Is 
it  a  foot  or  a  claw  ? 

Spirit  (sorrowfully).  It  might  be  a  claw,  for  the 
little  flesh  there  is  on  it.  Look  here.  (^Bringing 
I  wo  wretched  children  from  the  folds  of  its  rode)  Oh, 
man,  look,  look  down  here. 

Scrooge  {horrified).     Spirit,  are  they  yours  ? 

Spirit.  They  are  Man's,  and  they  cling  to  me. 
This  boy  is  Ignorance.     This  girl  is  Want. 

Scrooge.     Have  they  no  refuge  } 

Spirit  {reproachfully^.  Are  there  no  prisons  ? 
Are  there  no  workshops  ? 

\_Bell  strikes  twelve,  and  the    Ghost  of   Christmas 
Present  disappears^ 

SCENE  V 

Place  :  Scrooge's  home 

Time  :  Midnight^  Christmas  Eve 

r  Scrooge 

I  Spirit  (Ghost  of  Christmas  Yet  to  Come) 
I  First  Speaker 
I  Second  Speaker 
Characters  \  Third  Speaker 
I  Fourth  Speaker 
I  Mrs.  Cratchit 
I  Peter 
[Pob  Cratchit 

\_fust  as  the  Ghost  of  Christmas  Present  disappears, 
a  phantom   slowly   approaches  Scrooge.     It  is 


172  EBENEZER   SCROOGE'S    CHRISTMAS 

shrouded  in  a  black  garment,  concealing  its 
head,  its  face,  its  form,  — showing  only  one  out- 
stretched hand.'\ 

Scrooge.  Am  I  in  the  presence  of  the  Ghost  of 
Christmas  Yet  to  Come  ? 

\_The  Spirit  does  not  answer,  but  points  downward^ 

Scrooge.  You  are  about  to  show  me  shadows  of 
the  things  that  have  not  happened  but  will  happen 
in  the  time  before  us.     Is  that  so,  Spirit  ? 

\_Scrooge  is  horrified  because  the  Ghost  still  makes 
no  ajiswer^ 

Scrooge.  Ghost  of  the  Future,  I  fear  you  more 
than  any  specter  I  have  seen.  But,  as  I  know 
your  purpose  is  to  do  me  good,  and  as  I  hope  to  live 
to  be  another  man  from  what  I  was,  I  am  prepared 
to  bear  you  company,  and  to  do  it  with  a  thankful 
heart.     Will  you  not  speak  to  me? 

\Spirit  makes  no  answer,  but  points  straight  ahead^ 

Scrooge.  Lead  on !  Lead  on !  The  night  is 
waning  fast,  and  it  is  precious  time  to  me,  I  know. 
Lead  on.  Spirit ! 

\The  Spirit  stops  beside  a  little  group  of  business 
men.     Scrooge  listens  to  their  talk."] 

First  Speaker.     No,  I  don't  know  much  about  it, 
either  way.     I  only  know  he's  dead. 
Second  Speaker.     When  did  he  die  } 
First  Speaker.     Last  night,  I  believe. 


EBENEZER   SCROOGE'S   CHRISTMAS  173 

Third  Speaker,  Why,  what  was  the  matter  with 
him  ?     I  thought  he'd  never  die. 

First  Speaker.     God  only  knows. 

Fourth  Speaker,  What  has  he  done  with  his 
money  ? 

First  Speaker.  I  haven't  heard.  Left  it  to  his 
company,  perhaps.  He  hasn't  left  it  to  me.  That's 
all  I  know. 

Second  Speaker,  It's  likely  to  be  a  very  cheap 
funeral,  for  upon  my  life  I  don't  know  of  anybody  to 
go  to  it.  Suppose  we  make  up  a  party  and  volun- 
teer ? 

Fourth  Speaker.  I  don't  mind  going  if  a  lunch 
is  provided.     But  I  must  be  fed  if  I  make  one. 

First  Speaker.  Well,  I  am  the  most  unselfish 
one  among  you,  after  all,  for  I  never  wear  black 
gloves,  and  I  never  eat  lunch.  But  I'll  offer  to  go, 
if  anybody  else  will.  When  I  come  to  think  of  it, 
I'm  not  at  all  sure  that  I  wasn't  his  most  particular 
friend ;  for  we  used  to  stop  and  speak  whenever  we 
met.     By-by ! 

[  The  group  stroll  away."] 

Scrooge.  Spirit,  this  is  fearful.  If  there  is  any 
person  in  the  town  who  feels  emotion  caused  by 
this  man's  death,  show  that  person  to  me.  Spirit,  I 
beseech  you.  Oh,  let  me  see  some  tenderness  con- 
nected with  a  death,  or  this  heartless  scene  will  be 
forever  present  with  me, 


174  EBENEZER   SCROOGE'S   CHRISTMAS 

\Immediately  they  are  in  Bob  CratchUs  house. 
Mother  and  children  are  sitting  around  the 
fire,  Mrs.  Cratchit  lays  her  sewing  upon  the 
table  and  puts  her  hands  to  her  eyes.^ 

Mrs.  Cratchit.  The  color  hurts  my  eyes,  but 
they'll  be  better  directly.  It  makes  them  weak  by 
candle  light;  and  I  wouldn't  show  weak  eyes  to 
your  father  when  he  comes  home  for  the  world.  It 
must  be  near  his  time. 

Peter.  Past  it,  rather.  But  I  think  he's  walked 
a  little  slower  than  he  used  these  last  few  evenings, 
mother. 

Mrs.  Cratchit.  I  have  known  him  walk  with  — 
I  have  known  him  walk  with  Tiny  Tim  upon  his 
shoulder  very  fast,  indeed. 

Peter.     And  so  have  I,  —  often. 

Mrs.  Cratchit.  But  he  was  very  light  to  carry, 
and  his  father  loved  him  so  that  it  was  no  trouble 

—  no    trouble.     And    there   is  your   father    at    the 
door ! 

Bob  Cratchit.  My  dear,  I  wish  you  could  have 
gone  to  our  little  Tim's  grave  with  me.  It  would 
have  done  you  good  to  see  how  green  a  place  it  is, 
but  you'll  see  it  often.  I  promised  him  that  I  would 
walk  there  on  a  Sunday.  My  litde,  little  child! 
However  and  whenever  we  part  from  one  another,  I 
am  sure  we  shall   none  of  us  forget  poor  Tiny  Tim 

—  shall  we  —  or   this   first   parting  that  there  was 
among  us. 


EBENEZER   SCROOGE'S   CHRISTMAS  175 

AIL     Never,  father! 

Bob  Cratchit,  And  I  know,  I  know,  my  dears, 
that  when  we  recollect  how  patient  and  how  mild 
he  was,  although  he  was  a  little,  little  child,  we  shall 
not  quarrel  easily  among  ourselves,  and  forget  Tiny 
Tim  in  doing  it. 

All.     No,  never,  father. 

Bob  Crate  hit.  I  am  very  happy,  I  am  very 
happy. 

Scrooge  {clutehing  at  the  Spirits  robe).  Spirit! 
hear  me !  I  am  not  the  man  I  was.  I  will  not  be 
the  man  I  must  have  been  but  for  this  intercourse. 
Why  show  me  these  sights  if  I  am  past  all  hope  1 
Good  Spirit,  your  nature  intercedes  for  me,  and 
pities  me.  Assure  me  that  I  yet  may  change  these 
shadows  you  have  shown  me,  by  an  altered  life !  I 
will  honor  Christmas  in  my  heart,  and  try  to  keep 
it  all  the  year.  I  will  live  in  the  Past,  the  Present, 
and  the  Future.  The  spirits  of  all  three  shall 
strive  within  me.  I  will  not  shut  out  the  lessons 
that  they  teach.  Oh,  tell  me  I  may  wipe  out  the 
errors  of  my  selfish  life ! 

\_As  Scrooge  holds  his  hartds  in  prayer  to  the  Ghost, 
he  sees  it  shrink,  collapse,  and  dwindle  down 
1)1  to  a  bed  post ^ 


176  EBENEZER  SCROOGE'S  CHRISTMAS 


SCENE   VI 

Place  :  Scrooge  s  home. 

Time  :  Mornirig  of  Christmas  Day, 

\  Scrooge 
Characters  {  Boy 

y  Visitor  in  Scene  II 

Scrooge  {awaking  and  scrambling  out  of  bed).  I 
will  live  in  the  Past,  the  Present,  and  the  Future. 
The  spirits  of  all  three  shall  strive  within  me. 
Heaven  and  the  Christmas  time  be  praised  for  this ! 
{Folding  one  of  his  bed  curtains  in  his  arms) 
They  are  not  torn  down,  rings  and  all.  They  are. 
here;  I  am  here;  the  shadows  of  the  things  that 
would  have  been,  may  be  dispelled.  They  will  be. 
I  know  they  will !  {Putting  on  his  clothes)  I  don't 
know  what  to  do  !  I  am  as  light  as  a  feather,  I  am  as 
happy  as  an  angel,  I  am  as  merry  as  a  schoolboy,  I 
am  as  giddy  as  a  drunken  man.  A  Merry  Christ- 
mas to  everybody  !  A  Happy  New  Year  to  all  the 
world !     Halloo  here  !     Whoop  !     Halloo  ! 

There's  the  sauce  pan  that  the  gruel  was  in  !  There's 
the  corner  where  the  Ghost  of  Christmas  Present 
sat !  There's  the  window  where  I  went  out  with 
the  wandering  spirits !  It's  all  right,  it's  all  true, 
it  all  happened.     Ha,  ha,  ha! 

I  don't  know  what  day  of  the  month  it  is !  I  — 
I  don't  know  how  long  I've  been  among  the  spirits. 


EBENEZER   SCROOGE'S   CHRISTMAS  177 

I  don't  know  anything,  I'm  quite  a  baby.  Never 
mind,  I  don't  care.  I'd  rather  be  a  baby.  Halloo  ! 
Whoop  !  Halloo  there  !  {Running  to  the  window 
and  calling  to  a  boy  who  is  passing.)    What's  to-day  ? 

Boy  {wondering).     Eh  } 

Scrooge.     What's  to-day,  my  fine  fellow? 

Boy.     To-day!     Why,  Christmas  Day. 

Scrooge.  It's  Christmas  Day  !  I  haven't  missed 
it.  The  Spirits  have  done  it  all  in  one  night. 
They  can  do  anything  they  like.  Of  course  they 
can.     Halloo,  my  fine  fellow! 

Boy.     Halloo ! 

Scrooge.  Do  you  know  the  poulterer's  in  the 
next  street  but  one  at  the  corner  ? 

Boy.     I  should  hope  I  did. 

Scrooge.  An  intelligent  boy!  Do  you  know 
whether  they  have  sold  the  prize  turkey  that  was 
hanging  up  there?  Not  the  little  prize  turkey 
—  the  big  one  ? 

Boy.     What,  the  one  as  big  as  me  ? 

Scrooge.  What  a  delightful  boy  !  It's  a  pleasure 
to  talk  to  him. 

Boy.     It's  hanging  there  now. 

Scrooge.  Is  it  ?  Go  and  buy  it.  I  am  in  earnest. 
Go  and  buy  it,  and  tell  'em  to  bring  it  here,  that  I 
may  give  them  the  direction  where  to  take  it.  Come 
back  with  the  man,  and  I'll  give  you  a  shilling. 
Come  back  with  him  in  less  than  five  minutes,  and 
I'll  give  you  half  a  crown. 

KN.    DRAM.    READ. —  12 


178  EBENEZER   SCROOGE'S   CHRISTMAS 

\^Boy  runs  off7\ 

I'll  send  it  to  Bob  Cratchit's.  He  shan't  know 
who  sends  it.  It's  twice  the  size  of  Tiny  Tim.  Hal- 
loo! Here's  the  turkey!  How  are  you?  Merry 
Christmas!  Why,  it's  impossible  to  carry  that  to 
Camden;  you  must  have  a  cab. 

\Boy  goes  off  with  the  turkey.     Scrooge  walks  out 
into  the  street  and  meets  the  Visitor  of  Scene  11^ 

Scrooge.  My  dear  sir,  how  do  you  do  .^^  I  hope 
you  succeeded  yesterday.  It  w^as  very  kind  of  you. 
A  Merry  Christmas  to  you,  sir. 

Visitor.     Mr.  Scrooge.^* 

Scrooge.  Yes.  That  is  my  name,  and  I  fear  it 
may  not  be  pleasant  to  you.  Allow  me  to  ask  your 
pardon.  And  will  you  have  the  goodness  — 
{Scrooge  ivhispers  to  him) 

Visitor.  Lord  bless  me!  My  dear  Mr.  Scrooge, 
are  you  serious  '^. 

Scrooge.  If  you  please.  Not  a  farthing  less. 
A  great  many  back  payments  are  included  in  it,  I 
assure  you.     Will  you  do  me  that  favor.? 

Visitor.  My  dear  sir,  I  don't  know  what  to  say 
to  such  munifi — 

Scrooge.  Don't  say  anything,  please.  Come  and 
see  me.     Will  you  come  and  see  me  ? 

Visitor.     I  will ! 

Scrooge.  Thank'ee,  I  am  much  obliged  to  you. 
I  thank  you  fifty  times.     Bless  you ! 


EBENEZER   SCROOGE'S   CHRISTMAS  179 

SCENE   VII 

Place  :  Scrooge's  warehouse 

Time  :   The  day  after  Christmas,  9:15 

f  Scrooge 
^^^^^^^^^^^'^JBobCratchit 

Scrooge  {growling).  Halloo !  What  do  you 
mean  by  coming  here  at  this  time  of  day? 

Bob  Cratchit.  I  am  very  sorry,  sir.  I  am  behind 
my  time. 

Scrooge.  You  are  1  Yes,  I  think  you  are.  Step 
this  way,  sir,  if  you  please. 

Bob  Cratchit  {pleadingly).  It's  only  once  a  year, 
sir.  It  shall  not  be  repeated.  I  was  making  rather 
merry  yesterday,  sir. 

Scrooge.  Now,  Til  tell  you  what,  my  friend.  I 
am  not  going  to  stand  this  sort  of  thing  any  longer. 
And  therefore,  and  therefore,  I  am  going  to  raise  your 
salary.  A  Merry  Christmas,  Bob  !  A  Merrier  Christ- 
mas, Bob,  my  good  fellow,  than  I  have  given  you  for 
many  a  year !  I'll  raise  your  salary,  and  endeavor  to 
assist  your  struggling  family.  Make  up  the  fires, 
and  buy  another  coal  scuttle  before  you  dot  another  i. 
Bob  Cratchit! 

From  "  A  Christmas  Carol,"  by  Charles  Dickens  (adapted). 


GILES   COREY  OF   THE   SALEM  FARMS 

Giles  Corey  and  Martha,  his  wife,  had  been  suspected  of  witch- 
craft. Complaint  had  been  made  to  the  church  and  legal  authori- 
ties. One  night  Martha  Corey  dreamed  that  she  and  Giles  were 
in  prison,  fettered  hand  and  foot ;  that  they  were  taken  before 
the  magistrates,  tried  for  witchcraft,  and  condemned  to*  death. 
Very  soon  after,  two  of  the  church  officers  came  to  interview 
Martha  Corey;  and,  notwithstanding  all  her  denials  of  their  accu- 
sations, both  she  and  her  husband  were  taken  before  Justice  Ha- 
thorne  for  trial.  Both  were  condemned  for  witchcraft ;  and 
because  Giles  Corey  refused  either  to  make  confession  or  to  plead 
"  not  guilty  "  he  was  condemned  to  be  pressed  to  death  with  heavy 
weights. 

ACT   III 

Scene  III :  A  room  in  Corey's  house.     Afartha  and  two  Deacons, 
of  the  church 

Martha.     Be  seated.     I  am  glad  to  see  you  here. 
I  know  what  you  are  come  for.     You  are  come 
To  question  me,  and  learn  from  my  own  lips 
If  I  have  any  dealings  with  the  Devil ; 
In  short,  if  I'm  a  Witch. 

Deacon  (sitting  down).     Such  is  our  purpose. 
How  could  you  know  beforehand  why  we  came  t 

Martha.     'Twas  only  a  surmise. 

Deacon.  We  came  to  ask  you, 

i8i 


i82  GILES   COREY   OF   THE   SALEM   FARMS 

You  being  with  us  in  church  covenant, 
What  part  you  have,  if  any,  in  these  matters. 

Martha,     And  I  make  answer,  No  part  whatso- 
ever. 
I  am  a  farmer's  wife,  a  working  woman  ; 
You  see  my  spinning-wheel,  you  see  my  loom, 
You  know  the  duties  of  a  farmer's  wife. 
And  are  not  ignorant  that  my  Hfe  among  you 
Has  been  without  reproach  until  this  day. 
Is  it  not  true  ? 

Deacon,  So  much  we're  bound  to  own; 

And  say  it  frankly,  and  without  reserve. 

Martha.      I've    heard    the    idle    tales    that    are 
abroad ;  • 

I've  heard  it  whispered  that  I  am  a  Witch; 
I  cannot  help  it.     I  do  not  believe 
In  any  Witchcraft.     It  is  a  delusion. 

Deaco7i.     How  can  you  say  that  it  is  a  delusion, 
When  all  our  learned  and  good  men  believe  it  ?  — 
Our  Ministers  and  worshipful  Magistrates } 

Martha,     Their  eyes   are    blinded,  and    see  not 
the  truth. 
Perhaps  one  day  they  will  be  open  to  it. 

Deacon,      You    answer    boldly.       The   Afflicted 
Children 
Say  you  appeared  to  them. 

Martha.  And  did  they  say 

What  clothes  I  came  in } 

Deacon,  No,  they  could  not  tell. 


GILES   COREY   OF   THE   SALEM   FARMS  183 

They  said  that  you  foresaw  our  visit  here, 
And  blinded  them,  so  that  they  could  not  see 
The  clothes  you  wore. 

Martha,  The  cunning,  crafty  girls  ! 

I  say  to  you,  in  all  sincerity, 
I  never  have  appeared  to  any  one 
In  my  own  person.     If  the  Devil  takes 
My  .shape  to  hurt  these  children,  or  afflict  them, 
I  am  not  guilty  of  it.     And  I  say 
It's  all  a  mere  delusion  of  the  senses. 

Deacon,     I  greatly  fear  that  you  will  find  too  late 
It  is  not  so. 

Martha  (rising).     They  do  accuse  me  falsely. 
It  is  delusion,  or  it  is  deceit. 

ACT   IV 

Scene  II :  Interior  of  the  meeting-house.  Cotton  Mather  and  the 
Magistrates  seated  in  front  of  the  pulpit.  Before  them  on  a 
raised  platform  Martha  Corey  in  chains.  Giles  Corey  near 
her.  Mary  Walcot  in  a  chair.  A  crowd  of  spectators^  among 
them  John  Gloyd.     Confusion  and  murmurs  during  the  scene 

Hat  home.     Call  Martha  Corey. 

Martha:  I  am  here. 

Hat  home.  Come  forward. 

\She  ascends  the  platform^ 

The  Jurors  of  our  Sovereign  Lord  and  Lady, 
The  King  and  Queen,  here  present,  do  accuse  you 
Of  having  on  the  tenth  of  June  last  past. 


184  GIL?:S   COREY   OF   THE   SALEM   FARMS 

And  divers  other  times  before  and  after, 
Wickedly  used  and  practiced  certain  arts 
Called  Witchcrafts,  Sorceries,  and  Incantations, 
Against  one  Mary  Walcot,  single  woman, 
Of  Salem  Village ;  by  which  wicked  arts 
The  aforesaid  Mary  Walcot  was  tormented, 
Tortured,  afflicted,  pined,  consumed,  and  wasted. 
Against  the  peace  of  our  Sovereign  Lord  and  L^dy, 
The  King  and  Queen,  as  well  as  of  the  Statute 
Made  and  provided  in  that  case.     What  say  you? 

Martha.     Before  I  answer,  give  me  leave  to  pray. 

HatJwrne.     We   have   not  sent  for  you,  nor  are 
we  here. 
To  hear  you  pray,  but  to  examine  you 
In  whatsoever  is  alleged  against  you. 
Why  do  you  hurt  this  person? 

Martha.  I  do  not. 

I  am  not  guilty  of  the  charge  against  me. 

Maiy.     Avoid,  she-devil !     You  may  torment  me 
now! 
Avoid,  avoid.  Witch ! 

Martha.  I  am  innocent. 

I  never  had  to  do  with  any  Witchcraft 
Since  I  was  born.     I  am  a  gospel  woman. 

Maiy.     You  are  a  gospel  Witch  ! 

Martha    {clasping  her  hands).     Ah  me !    ah  me  ! 
Oh,  give  me  leave  to  pray ! 

Mary  [stretching  out  her  hands).     She  hurts  me 
now. 


GILES   COREY    OF   THE   SALEM   FARMS  185 

See,  she  has  pinched  my  hands ! 

Hathorne,  Who  made  these  marks 

Upon  her  hands? 

Martha.  I  do  not  know.     I  stand 

Apart  from  her.     I  did  not  touch  her  hands. 

Hathorne.     Who  hurt  her,  then.? 

Martha.  I  know  not. 

Hathor7ie.  Do  you  think 

She  is  bewitched  ? 

Martha.  Indeed  I  do  not  think  so. 

I  am  no  Witch,  and  have  no  faith  in  Witches. 

Hathorne.     Then  answer  me :  When  certain  per- 
sons came 
To  see  you  yesterday,  how  did  you  know 
Beforehand  why  they  came.f^ 

Martha.  I  had  had  speech. 

The  children  said  I  hurt  them,  and  I  thought 
These  people  came  to  question  me  about  it. 

Hathorne.     How  did  you  know  the  children  had 
been  told 
To  note  the  clothes  you  wore.^* 

Martha.  .  My  husband  told  me 

What  others  said  about  it. 

Hathorne.  Goodman  Corey, 

Say,  did  you  tell  her? 

Corey,  I  must  speak  the  truth ; 

I  did  not  tell  her.     It  was  some  one  else. 

Hathorne.     Did  you  not  say  your  husband  told 
you  so? 


1 86  GILES   COREY   OF   THE   SALEM   FARMS 

How  dare  you  tell  a  lie  in  this  assembly? 

Who  told  you  of  the  clothes  ?     Confess  the  truth. 

\_Martka  bites  her  lips^  ajid  is  silent^ 

You  bite  your  lips,  but  do  not  answer  me ! 

Mary.     Ah,  she  is  biting  me  !     Avoid,  avoid  ! 

Hathoriie.     You  said  your  husband  told  you. 

Martha.  Yes,  he  told  me 

The  children  said  I  troubled  them. 

Hathorne.  Then  tell  me, 

Why  do  you  trouble  them? 

Martha.  I  have  denied  it. 

Mary.     She  threatened  me ;  stabbed  at  me  with 
her  spindle ; 
And,  when  my  brother  thrust  her  with  his  sword, 
He  tore  her  gown,  and  cut  a  piece  away. 
Here  are  they  both,  the  spindle  and  the  cloth. 

\_Shows  them?\^ 

Hathorne.     And    there    are    persons    here    who 

know  the  truth 
Of  what  has  now  been  said.     What  answer  make 

you  ? 
Martha.     I  make  no  answer.     Give  me  leave  to 

pray. 
Hathorne.     Whom  would  you  pray  to  ? 
Martha.  To  my 

God  and  Father. 
Hathor7ie.     Who  is  your  God  and  Father? 
Martha.  The  Almighty ! 


GILES   COREY   OF   THE   SALEM   FARMS  187 

Hathorne.     Doth  he  you  pray  to  say  that  he  is 

God? 
It  is  the  Prince  of  Darkness,  and  not  God. 

Mary.     There  is  a  dark  shape  whispering  in  her 

ear. 
Hathor7ie,     What  does  it  say  to  you  ? 
Martha.  I  see  no 

shape. 
Hathorne.     Did  you  not  hear  it  whisper.'^ 
Martha.  I  heard 

nothing. 
Mary.     What  torture !     Ah,  what  agony  I  suffer ! 

\Falls  into  a  szvoon^ 

Hathorne.     You  see  this    woman    cannot   stand 
before  you. 
If  you  would  look  for  mercy,  you  must  look 
In  God's  way,  by  confession  of  your  guilt. 
Why  does  your  specter  haunt  and  hurt  this  person  ? 

Martha.     I  do  not  know.     He  who  appeared  of  old 
In  Samuel's  shape,  a  saint  and  glorified. 
May  come  in  whatsoever  shape  he  chooses. 
I  cannot  help  it.     I  am  sick  at  heart! 

Corey.     O    Martha,    Martha!    let  me   hold    your 
hand. 

Hathorne.     No;  stand  aside,  old  man. 

Mary  (starting  uf).  Look 

there  !     Look  there  ! 
I  see  a  little  bird,  a  yellow  bird, 


1 88  GILES   COREY   OF   THE   SALEM   FARMS 

Perched  on  her  finger ;  and  it  pecks  at  me. 
Ah^it  will  tear  mine  eyes  out ! 

Martha.  I  see  nothing. 

Hathorne.     'Tis  the  FamiHar  Spirit  that  attends 
her. 

Mary.     Now  it  has  flown  away.     It  sits  up  there 
Upon  the  rafters.     It  is  gone  ;  is  vanished. 

Martha.     Giles,  wipe  these  tears  of  anger  from 
mine  eyes. 
Wipe  the  sweat  from  my  forehead.      I  am  faint. 

\_She  leans  against  the  railing.'] 

Mary.     Oh,   she   is    crushing    me    with    all    her 

weight ! 
Hathorne.     Did  you  not  carry  once  the  Devil's 
Book 
To  this  young  woman  } 
Martha.  Never. 

Hathorne.  Have  you  signed  it, 

Or  touched  it } 

Martha.  No ;  I  never  saw  it. 

Hathorne.     Did  you  not  scourge  her  with  an  iron 

rod  1 
Martha.     No,  I  did  not.      If  any  Evil  Spirit 
Has  taken  my  shape  to  do  these  evil  deeds, 
I  cannot  help  it.     I  am  innocent. 

Hathorne.     Did  you  not  say  the  Magistrates  were 
blind  } 
That  you  would  open  their  eyes } 


GILES   COREY   OF   THE   SALEM   FARMS  189 

Martha  {with a  scornfullaugh) .    Yes,  I  said  that; 
If  you  call  me  a  sorceress,  you  are  blind! 
If  you  accuse  the  innocent,  you  are  blind ! 
Can  the  innocent  be  guilty  ? 

Hathorne.  Did  you  not 

On  one  occasion  hide  your  husband's  saddle 
To  hinder  him  from  coming  to  the  Sessions  ? 

Martha.     I  thought  it  was  a  folly  in  a  farmer 
To  waste  his  time  pursuing  such  illusions. 

Hathorne.     What  was  the  bird  that  this  young 
woman  saw 
Just  now  upon  your  hand  ? 

Martha.  I  know  no  bird. 

Hathorne.     Have  you  not  dealt  with,  a  Familiar 
Spirit  ? 

Martha.    No,  never,  never! 

Hathorne.  What,  then,  was  the 

Book 
You  showed  to  this  young  woman,  and  besought 

her 
To  write  in  it  ? 

Martha.  Where  should  I  have  a  book? 

I  showed  her  none,  nor  have  none. 

Mary.  The  next  Sab- 

bath 
Is  the  Communion  Day,  but  Martha  Corey 
Will  not  be  there  ! 

Martha.  Ah,  you  are  all  against  me. 

What  can  I  do  or  say  ? 


IQO  GILES   COREY   OF    THE   SALEM   FARMS 

Hathorne.  You  can  confess. 

Martha.     No,  I  cannot,  for  I  am  innocent. 

Hathorne.     We  have  the  proof  of  many  witnesses 
That  you  are  guilty. 

Martha.  Give  me  leave  to  speak. 

Will  you  condemn  me  on  such  evidence,  — 
You  who  have  known  me  for  so  many  years  .f* 
Will  you  condemn  me  in  this  house  of  God, 
Where  I  so  long  have  worshiped  with  you  all  ? 
Where  I  have  eaten  the  bread  and  drunk  the  wine 
So  many  times  at  our  Lord's  Table  with  you  ? 
Bear  witness,  you  that  hear  me ;  you  all  know 
That  I  have  led  a  blameless  life  among  you, 
That  never  any  whisper  of  suspicion 
Was  breathed  against  me  till  this  accusation. 
And  shall  this  count  for  nothing  ?     Will  you  take 
My  life  away  from  me,  because  this  girl, 
Who  is  distraught,  and  not  in  her  right  mind. 
Accuses  me  of  things  I  blush  to  name  ? 

Hathorne.     What!  is  it  not  enough  t     Would  you 
hear  more } 
Giles  Corey! 

Corey,  I  am  here. 

Hathorne.  Come  forward,  then, 

\Corey  ascends  the  plat  form. ~\ 

Is  it  not  true,  that  on  a  certain  night 

You  were  impeded  strangely  in  your  prayers  ? 

That  something  hindered  you }  and  that  you  left 


GILES   COREY   OF    THE   SALEM   FARMS  191 

This  woman  here,  your  wife,  kneeling  alone 
Upon  the  hearth? 

Corey.  Yes  ;   I  cannot  deny  it. 

Hathorne.     Did  you  not  say  the  Devil  hindered 
you  ? 

Corey.     I  think  I  said  some  words  to  that  effect. 

Hathorne.     Is  it  not  true,  that  fourteen  head  of 
cattle, 
To  you  belonging,  broke  from  their  inclosure 
And  leaped  into  the  river,  and  were  drowned  ? 

Corey.     It  is  most  true. 

Hathorne.  And  did  you  not  then  say 

That  they  were  overlooked  ? 

Corey.  So  much  I  said. 

I  see;  they're  drawing  round  me  closer,  closer, 
A  net  I  cannot  break,  cannot  escape  from !  [Aside.) 

Hathorne.     Who  did  these  things  ? 

Corey.  I  do  not  know  who  did  them. 

Hathorne.     Then   I  will  tell  you.     It  is  someone 
near  you ; 
You  see  her  now ;  this  woman,  your  own  wife. 

Corey.     I  call  the  heavens  to  witness,  it  is  false  ! 
She  never  harmed  me,  never  hindered  me 
In  anything  but  what  I  should  not  do. 
And  I  bear  witness  in  the  sight  of  heaven. 
And  in  God's  house  here,  that  I  never  knew  her. 
As  otherwise  than  patient,  brave,  and  true. 
Faithful,  forgiving,  full  of  charity, 
A  virtuous  and  industrious  and  good  wife! 


192  GILES   COREY   OF    THE    SALEM   FARMS 

Hathorne,     Tut,  tut,  man  ;  do  not  rant  so  in  your 
speech  ; 
You  are  a  witness,  not  an  advocate  ! 
Here,  Sheriff,  take  this  woman  back  to  prison. 
Martha.     O  Giles,  this  day  you've  sworn  away 

my  life ! 
Mary.     Go,  go  and  join  the  Witches  at  the  door. 
Do  you  not  hear  the  drum  ?     Do  you  not  see  them  ? 
Go  quick.     They're  waiting  for  you.     You  are  late. 

\_Exit  Martha;  Corey  following^ 

Corey.     The  dream!  the  dream  !  the  dream  ! 

Hathorne.  What  does  he  say  .-^ 

Giles  Corey,  go  not  hence.     You  are  yourself 
Accused  of  Witchcraft  and  of  Sorcery 
By  many  witnesses.     Say,  are  you  guilty  ? 

Corey.     I    know   my   death    is    foreordained    by 
you  — 
Mine  and  my  wife's.      Therefore  I  will  not  answer. 

\Puring  the  rest  of  the  scene  he  remains  silent^ 

Hathorne.     Do   you  refuse    to   plead  .^  —  'Twere 
better  for  you 
To  make  confession,  or  to  plead  Not  Guilty.  — 
Do  you  not  hear  me  ?  —  Answer,  are  you  guilty  } 
Do  you  not  know  a  heavier  doom  awaits  you. 
If  you  refuse  to  plead,  than  if  found  guilty .? 
Where  is  John  Gloyd  } 

G toy d  {coming  forward).     Here  am  I. 

Hathorne.  Tell  the  Court ; 


GILES   COREY   OF   THE   SALEM   FARMS  193 

Have  you  not  seen  the  supernatural  power 
Of  this  old  man  ?     Have  you  not  seen  him  do 
Strange  feats  of  strength  ? 

Gloyd.  I've  seen  him  lead  the  field, 

On  a  hot  day,  in  mowing,  and  against 
Us  younger  men ;  and  I  have  wrestled  with  him. 
He  threw  me  like  a  feather.     I  have  seen  him 
Lift  up  a  barrel  with  his  single  hands. 
Which  two  strong  men  could  hardly  lift  together, 
And,  holding  it  above  his  head,  drink  from  it. 

Hathorne.     That  is  enough  ;  we  need  not  ques- 
tion further. 
What  answer  do  you  make  to  this,  Giles  Corey  ? 

Mary,     See  there  !     See  there  ! 

Hathorne,  What  is  it  ?     I  see  nothing. 

Mary,     Look !  Look  !     It  is  the  ghost  of  Robert 
Goodell, 
Whom  fifteen  years  ago  this  man  did  murder 
By  stamping  on  his  body !     In  his  shroud 
He  comes  here  to  bear  witness  to  the  crime! 

[  The  crowd  shruiks  back  from  Corey  in  horror^ 

Hathor7ie,     Ghosts  of  the  dead  and  voices  of  the 
living 
Bear  witness  to  your  guilt,  and  you  must  die  ! 
It  might  have  been  an  easier  death.     Your  doom 
Will  be  on  your  own  head,  and  not  on  ours. 
Twice  more  will  you  be  questioned  of  these  things ; 
Twice  more  have  room  to  plead  or  to  confess. 

KN.   DRAM.    READ. —  1 3 


194  GILES   COREY   OF   THE   SALEM   FARMS 

If  you  are  contumacious  to  the  Court, 
And  if,  when  questioned,  you  refuse  to  answer, 
Then  by  the  Statute  you  will  be  condemned 
To  iho.  peine  forte  et  dure!     To  have  your  body 
Pressed  by  great  weights  until  you  shall  be  dead! 
And  may  the  Lord  have  mercy  on  your  soul ! 

—  From  "  Giles  Corey  of  the  Salem  Farms,"  by  Henry  W.  Longfellow. 


THE   GOLD-BUG 

Mr.  William  Legrand  lived  in  one  of  the  most  remote  parts  of 
Sullivan's  Island,  near  Charleston,  South  Carolina.  He  was  a  well- 
educated  man,  the  owner  of  many  books,  but  he  rarely  employed 
them.  His  chief  amusements  were  gunning  and  fishing,  or  saun- 
tering along  the  coast  in  quest  of  shells  or  entomological  specimens. 
In  these  excursions  he  was  usually  accompanied  by  an  old  negro, 
called  Jupiter. 

One  October  day  a  doctor,  a  friend  of  Legrand's,  scrambled 
his  way  through  the  evergreens  to  the  hut  of  his  friend.  He  found 
Legrand  very  enthusiastic  over  a  strange  beetle. 

SCENE   I 

f  William  Legrand 
Doctor 
Jupiter,  a  negro  servant 

Mr.  Legrand.  I  wish  to  have  your  opinion, 
Doctor,  on  this  beetle  to-morrow. 

Doctor.  .   And  why  not  to-night.? 

Mr.  Legrand.  Ah,  if  I  had  only  known  you 
were  to  be  here ;  but  how  could  I  foresee  that  you 
would  pay  me  a  visit  this  very  night  of  all  others } 

As  I  was  coming  home  I  met  Lieutenant  G 

from  the  fort,  and,  very  foolishly,  I  lent  him  the 
bug;  so  it  will  be  impossible  for  you  to  see  it  until 
the  morning.     Stay  here  to-night,  and  I  will  send 

195 


196  THE    GOLD-BUG 

Jup  down  for  it  at  sunrise.  It  is  the  loveliest  thing 
in  creation ! 

Doctor.     What  ?  —  sunrise  ? 

Mr.  Legrand.  Nonsense !  no,  the  bug.  It  is  of 
a  brilliant  gold  color  —  about  the  size  of  a  hickory 
nut  —  with  two  jet-black  spots  near  one  extremity 
of  the  back,  and  another,  somewhat  longer,  at  the 
other.     The  antemice  are  — 

Jupiter.  Dey  ain't  no  tin  in  him,  Massa  Will,  I 
keep  a-tellin'  on  you ;  de  bug  is  a  goole-bug,  solid, 
ebery  bit  of  him,  inside  and  all,  'sep  him  wing ;  neber 
feel  half  so  hebby  a  bug  in  my  life. 

Mr.  Legrand.  Well,  suppose  it  is,  Jup,  is  that 
any  reason  for  your  letting  the  supper  burn  }  {To 
the  Doctor)  The  color  is  really  almost  enough  to 
warrant  Jupiter's  idea.  You  never  saw  a  more  bril- 
liant metallic  luster  than  the  scales  emit,  but  of  this 
you  cannot  judge  until  to-morrow.  In  the  meantime 
I  can  give  you  some  idea  of  the  shape.  {Taking  a 
scrap  of  paper  from  his  pocket)  This  will  answer 
to  draw  upon. 

Doctor  {looking  at  the  drawing).  Well,  this  is  a 
strange  beetle,  I  must  confess ;  new  to  me ;  never 
saw  anything  like  it  before  —  unless  it  was  a  skull, 
or  a  death's  head  —  which  it  resembles  more  nearly 
than  anything  else  that  has  come  under  my  obser- 
vation. 

Mr.  Legrand.  A  death's  head!  Oh  — yes  — 
well,   it  has    something   of    that   appearance    upon 


THE   GOLD-BUG  197 

paper,  no  doubt.  The  two  upper  black  spots  look 
like  eyes,  eh  ?  And  the  longer  one  at  the  bottom 
like  a  mouth ;  and  then  the  shape  of  the  whole  is 
oval. 

Doctor.  Perhaps  so,  but,  Legrand,  I  fear  you  are 
no  artist.  I  must  wait  until  I  see  the  beetle  itself, 
if  I  am  to  form  any  idea  of  its  personal  appearance. 

Mr.  Legrand.  Well,  I  don't  know ;  I  draw  toler- 
ably—  should  do  it  at  least  —  have  had  good 
masters,  and  flatter  myself  that  I  am  not  quite  a 
blockhead. 

Doctor.  But,  my  dear  fellow  you  are  joking, 
then.  This  is  a  very  passable  skull,  —  indeed  I  may 
say  that  is  a  very  excellent  skull,  and  your  beetle 
must  be  the  queerest  in  the  world  if  it  resembles  it. 
But  where  are  the  antennce  you  spoke  of? 

Mr.  Legrand.  The  antennce !  I  am  sure  you 
must  see  the  ajitenncE.  I  made  them  as  distinct  as 
they  are  in  the  original  insect,  and  I  presume  that 
is  sufficient. 

Doctor.  Well,  well,  perhaps  you  have  —  still  I 
don't  see  them. 

Mr.  Legrand  took  the  paper  peevishly  and  was  about  to  crumple 
it  when  something  in  the  drawing  seemed  to  rivet  his  attention. 
In  an  instant  his  face  grew  violently  red  —  in  another  excessively 
pale.  For  some  minutes  he  continued  to  scrutinize  the  drawing. 
At  last  he  put  the  paper  into  a  wallet  and  locked  the  wallet  in  his 
writing  desk.  As  the  evening  wore  away  he  became  more  and  more 
abstracted.  The  Doctor  had  intended  to  pass  the  night  at  the 
hut ;  but,  seeing  his  host  in  this  mood,  he  decided  to  take  leave. 


198  THE   GOLD-BUG 

SCENE    II 

About  a  month  after  this  conversation  the  Doctor  received  a 
visit  at  Charleston  from  Jupiter,  who  looked  troubled. 

Doctor.  Well,  J  up,  what  is  the  matter  now? 
How  is  your  master  ? 

Jupiter.  Why,  to  speak  de  troof,  massa,  him  not 
so  berry  well  as  mought  be. 

Doctor,  Not  well  ?  I  am  truly  sorry  to  hear  it. 
What  does  he  complain  of? 

Jupiter.  Dar !  dat's  it !  him  neber  'plain  of 
notin',  but  him  berry  sick  for  all  dat. 

Doctor,  Very  sick,  Jupiter!  Why  didn't  you 
say  so  at  once  ?     Is  he  confined  to  his  bed  ? 

Jupiter,  No,  dat  he  aint;  he  ain't  'fined  no- 
whar — dat's  just  whar  de  shoe  pinch.  My  mind  is 
got  to  be  berry  hebby  'bout  Massa  Will. 

Doctor.  Jupiter,  I  should  like  to  understand 
what  it  is  you  are  talking  about.  You  say  your 
master  is  sick.      Hasn't  he  told  you  what  ails  him  ? 

Jupiter.  Why,  massa,  'tain't  worf  while  for  to 
git  mad  'bout  de  matter.  Massa  Will  say  nofiin'  at 
all  ain't  de  matter  wid  him  ;.  but  den  what  makes 
him  go  about  lookin'  dis  here  way,  wid  his  head 
down  and  he  soldiers  up,  and  as  white  as  a  gos'? 
And  den  he  keep  a  syphon  all  de  time  — 

Doctor.     Keeps  a  what,  Jupiter? 

Jupiter.  Keeps  a  syphon  wid  de  figgers  on  de 
slate  —  de   queerest   figgers   I  ebber   did  see.     Ise 


THE    GOLD-BUG  199 

gittin'  to  be  skeered,  I  tell  you.  Hab  for  to  keep 
mighty  tight  eye  pon  him  noovers.  Todder  day 
he  gib  me  slip  'fore  de  sun  up,  and  was  gone  de 
whole  ob  de  blessed  day. 

Doctor.  Can  you  form  no  idea  of  what  has 
caused  this  change  of  conduct  ?  Has  anything  un- 
pleasant happened  since  I  saw  you  ? 

Jupiter.  No,  massa,  dey  ain't  been  noffin'  on- 
pleasant  shice  den  —  'twas  'fore  den,  I'm  feared ; 
'twas  de  berry  day  you  was  dar. 

Doctor.     How?  what  do  you  mean? 

Jupiter.     Why,  massa,  I  mean  de  bug  —  dare  now. 

Doctor.     The  what  ? 

Jupiter.  De  bug.  I'm  berry  sartin  dat  Massa 
Will  bin  bit  somewhere  'bout  de  head  by  dat  goole- 
bug. 

Doctor.  And  what  cause  have  you,  Jupiter,  for 
such  a  supposition  ? 

Jupiter.  Claws  enuff,  massa,  and  mouff  too.  I 
nebber  did  see  sich  a  bug ;  he  kick  and  he  bite 
ebery  ting  what  come  near  him. 

Doctor.  And  you  think,  then,  that  your  master 
was  really  bitten  by  the  beetle,  and  that  the  bite 
made  him  sick  ? 

Jupiter.  I  don't  tink  noffin'  about  it — I  knows 
it.  What  makes  him  dream  'bout  de  gool  so  much, 
if  'tain't  cause  he  bit  by  de  goole-bug  ? 

Doctor.  But  how  do  you  know  he  dreams  about 
gold? 


200  THE    GOLD-BUG 

Jupiter.  How  I  know  ?  Why,  'cause  he  talk 
'bout  it  in  his  sleep,  dat's  how  I  knows. 

Doctor.  Did  you  bring  any  message  from  Mr. 
Legrand  ? 

Jupiter.  No,  massa,  I  bring  dis  here.  {Handing 
the  Doctor  a  note.) 

Doctor  {reacting).  "My  dear  Doctor  :  Why 
have  I  not  seen  you  for  so  long  a  time }  Since  I 
saw  you  I  have  had  great  cause  for  anxiety.  I  have 
something  to  tell  you,  yet  scarcely  know  how  to  tell 
it,  or  whether  I  should  tell  it  at  all.  If  you  can  in 
any  way  make  it  convenient,  come  over  to-night 
with  Jupiter.  Do  come.  I  wish  to  see  you  to-night 
upon  business  of  importance.  I  assure  you  it  is  of 
the  highest  importance. 

"  Ever  yours, 

"  W^iLLiAM  Legrand." 

What  business  "  of  the  highest  importance  "  can  he 
have  to  transact?  Come,  Jupiter,  I'll  get  ready  to 
go  back  with  you. 

SCENE  III 

About  three  in  the  afternoon  the  Doctor  reached  his  friend's 
home.     He  found  Mr.  Legrand  nervous  and  pale. 

Doctor.  Well,  Legrand,  have  you  obtained  your 
beetle  from  Lieutenant  G } 

Mr.  Legrand.  Oh,  yes,  I  got  it  from  him. the 
next  morning.      Nothing  should  tempt  me  to  part 


THE   GOLD-BUG  201 

with  it.  Do  you  know  that  Jupiter  is  quite  right 
about  it  ? 

Doctor.     In  what  way? 

Mr.  Legrand.  In  supposing  it  to  be  a  bug  of 
real  gold.  The  bug  is  to  make  my  fortune.  Is  it 
any  wonder,  then,  that  I  prize  it  ?  Jupiter,  bring 
it  to  me. 

Jupiter.  What!  de  bug,  massa?  I'd  rudder  not 
go  fer  trubble  dat  bug,  — you  mus'  git  him  for  your 
own  self. 

Mr.  Legrand  brings  his  friend  the  beetle.  The  scales  are  ex- 
ceedingly hard  and  glossy,  with  all  the  appearance  of  burnished 
gold,  and  the  weight  of  the  insect  is  remarkable. 

Mr.  Legrand.  I  have  sent  for  you  that  I  might 
have  your  counsel  and  assistance  — 

Doctor.  My  dear  Legrand,  you  are  certainly  un- 
well. You  shall  go  to  bed,  and  I  will  remain  with 
you  for  a  few  days,  until  you  get  over  this.  You 
are  feverish  and  — 

Mr.  Legrand.     Feel  my  pulse. 

Doctor.  But  you  may  be  ill  and  yet  have  no 
fever.  Allow  me  this  once  to  prescribe  for  you. 
In  the  first  place  go  to  bed.     In  the  next  — 

Mr.  Legrand.  You  are  mistaken.  I  am  as  well 
as  I  can  expect  to  be  under  the  excitement  which  I 
suffer.  If  you  really  wish  me  well,  you  will  relieve 
this  excitement. 

Doctor,     And  how  is  this  to  be  done  ? 


202  THE    GOLD-BUG 

Mr.  Legrand.  Very  easily.  Jupiter  and  I  are 
going  upon  an  expedition  into  the  hills,  upon  the 
mainland,  and  in  this  expedition  we  shall  need  the 
aid  of  some  person  in  whom  we  can  confide.  You 
are  the  only  one  we  can  trust. 

Doctor,  I  am  anxious  to  oblige  you  in  any  way, 
but  do  you  mean  to  say  that  this  infernal  beetle  has 
any  connection  with  your  expedition  into  the  hills  } 

Mr.  Legra7id.     It  has. 

Doctor.  Then,  Legrand,  I  can  become  a  party 
to  no  such  absurd  proceeding. 

Mr.  Legrand.  I  am  sorry  —  very  sorry  —  for  we 
shall  have  to  try  it  by  ourselves. 

Doctor.  Try  it  by  yourselves !  The  man  is 
surely  mad  !  But  stay,  how  long  do  you  propose  to 
be  absent? 

Mr.  Legrand.  Probably  all  night.  We  shall 
start  immediately,  and  be  back,  at  all  events,  by 
sunrise. 

Doctor.  And  will  you  promise  me  upon  your 
honor  that  when  this  freak  of  yours  is  over,  and  the 
bug  business  settled  to  your  satisfaction,  you  will 
then  return  home  and  follow  my  advice  implicitly, 
as  that  of  your  physician  ? 

Mr.  Legrand.  Yes,  I  promise  ;  and  now  let  us 
be  off,  for  we  have  no  time  to  lose. 


THE   GOLD-BUG  203 


SCENE    IV       . 

The  three  men  rowed  across  to  the  mainland  and  went  in  a 
northwesterly  direction,  through  a  tract  of  country  excessively 
wild  and  desolate.  Legrand  led  the  way  with  decision,  until  at 
last  they  came  to  an  enormously  tall  tulip  tree. 

Mr,  Legrarid,  Jupiter,  do  you  think  you  can 
climb  that  tree  ? 

Jupiter.  Yes,  massa,  Jup  climb  any  tree  he  ebber 
see  in  he  life. 

Mr.  Legrand.  Then  up  with  you  as  soon  as 
possible,  for  it  will  soon  be  too  dark  to  see  what  we 
are  about. 

Jupiter.     How  far  mus'  go  up,  massa  ? 

Mr.  Legrand.  Get  up  the  main  trunk  first,  and 
then  I  will  tell  you  which  way  to  go  —  and  here  — 
stop !  take  this  beetle  with  you. 

Jupiter  {drawing  back  i7i  dismay).  De  bug, 
Massa  Will!  de  goole-bug!  what  for  mus'  tote  de 
bug  'way  up  de  tree  ? 

Mr.  Legrand.  If  you  are  afraid,  Jup,  a  great  big 
negro  like  you,  to  take  hold  of  a  harmless  little  dead 
beetle,  why,  you  can  carry  it  up  by  this  string;  but 
if  you  do  not  take  it  up  with  you  in  some  way,  I 
shall  be  under  the  necessity  of  breaking  your  head 
with  this  shovel. 

Jupiter.  What  de  matter  now,  massa  ?  Always 
want  for  to  raise  fuss  wid  old  nigger.     Was   only 


(204) 


Iri'irER  IN    iHK  Tree 


THE    GOLD-BUG  205 

funnin',  anyhow.     Me  feered  de  bug  !  what  I  keer 
for  de  bug  ? 

Jupiter  carries  the  beetle  by  the  extreme  end  of  the  string  and 
climbs  up  sixty  feet  from  the  ground  to  the  first  great  fork  of  the 
tree. 

Jupiter.     Which  way  mus'  go  now,  Massa  Will  ? 
Mr.  Legrand.     Keep   up   the  largest  branch,— 
the  one  on  this  side. 

\_jMpiter  climbs  still  higher^ 

Jupiter.     How  much  fudder  is  got  for  go  .f* 

Mr.  Legrand.     How  high  up  are  you  ? 

Jupiter.  Ebber  so  fur ;  can  see  de  sky  fru  de 
top  of  de  tree. 

Mr.  Legrand.  Never  mind  the  sky,  but  attend 
to  what  I  say.  Look  down  the  trunk  and  count 
the  limbs  below  you  on  this  side.  How  many  limbs 
have  you  passed } 

Jupiter.  One,  two,  three,  four,  fibe  —  I  done 
pass  fibe  big  limb,  massa,  'pon  dis  side. 

Mr.  Legrand.  Then  go  one  limb  higher.  Then 
I  want  you  to  work  your  way  out  upon  that  limb 
as  far  as  you  can.  If  you  see  anything  strange,  let 
me  know. 

Jupiter.  Mos'  feerd  for  to  venter  pon  dis  limb 
berry  far ;  'tis  dead  limb  putty  much  all  de  way. 

Mr.  Legrand  {excited).  Did  you  say  it  was  a 
deadWmh,  Jupiter.? 

Jupiter.      Yes,    massa,   him    dead    as    de    door- 


2o6  THE   GOLD-BUG 

nail  —  done  up  for  sartin  —  done  departed  dis  here 
life. 

Mr.  Legra7td  {in  great  distress).  What  in  the 
name  of  Heaven  shall  I  do? 

Doctor.  Do !  why,  come  home  and  go  to  bed. 
Come,  now!  that's  a  fine  fellow.  It's  getting  late, 
and,  besides,  you  remember  your  promise. 

Mr.  Legrmid.     Jupiter,  do  you  hear  me? 

Jupiter.  Yes,  Massa  Will,  hear  you  ebber  so 
plain. 

Mr.  Legrand.  Try  the  wood  well,  then,  with 
your  knife,  and  see  if  you  think  it  very  rotten. 

Jupiter.  Him  rotten,  massa,  sure  'nuff,  but  not 
so  berry  rotten  as  mought  be.  Mought  venter  out 
leetle  way  'pon  de  limb  by  myself,  dat's  true. 

Mr.  Legrand.  By  yourself!  What  do  you 
mean  ? 

Jupiter.  Why,  I  mean  de  bug.  Tis  berry 
hebby  bug.  S'pose  I  drop  him  down  fust,  and 
den  de  limb  won't  break  wid  just  de  weight  of 
one   nigger. 

Mr.  Legrand.  You  scoundrel !  what  do  you 
mean  by  telling  me  such  nonsense  as  that?  As 
sure  as  you  drop  that  beetle,  I'll  break  your  neck. 
Look  here,  Jupiter,  do  you  hear  me? 

Jupiter.  Yes,  massa,  needn't  hollo  at  poor  nigger 
dat  style. 

Mr.  Legrand.  Well !  now  listen  !  —  if  you  will 
venture  out  on  the  limb  as  far  as  you  think  safe, 


THE   GOLD-BUG  207 

and  not  let  go  the  beetle,  I'll  make  you  a  present  of 
a  silver  dollar  as  soon  as  you  get  down. 

Jupiter.  I'm  goin',  Massa  Will,  'deed  I  is;  mos' 
out  to  the  eend  now. 

Mr,  Legrand  (very  much  excited) .  Out  to  the  e7id  ! 
Do  you  say  you  are  out  to  the  end  of  that  limb  ? 

Jupiter.  Soon  be  to  the  eend,  massa,  —  0-0-0-0- 
oh !  what  is  dis  here  'pon  de  tree  ? 

Mr,  Legrand.     Well,  what  is  it  ? 

Jupiter,  Why,  'tain't  noffin'  but  a  skull.  Some- 
body bin  lef  him  head  up  de  tree,  and  de  crows  done 
gobble  ebery  bit  ob  de  meat  off. 

Mr.  Legrand.  A  skull,  you  say!  Very  well; 
how  is  it  fastened  to  the  limb  ?     What  holds  it  on  ? 

Jupiter.  Shure  'nuff,  massa ;  mus'  look.  Why, 
dis  berry  curous  sarcumstance,  'pon  my  word. 
Dare's  a  great  big  nail  in  de  skull,  what  fastens 
ob  it  on  to  de  tree. 

Mr.  Legrand.  Well  now,  Jupiter,  do  exactly  as 
I  tell  you  —  do  you  hear } 

Jupiter.     Yes,  massa. 

Mr.  Legrand.  Pay  attention,  then !  find  the  left 
eye  of  the  skull. 

Jupiter.  Hum  !  ho  !  dat's  good  !  why,  dare  ain't 
no  eye  lef  at  all. 

Mr.  Legrand,  Oh,  your  stupidity  !  do  you  know 
your  right  hand  from  your  left  ? 

Jupiter.  Yes,  I  nose  dat  —  nose  all  about  dat  — 
'tis  my  lef  hand  what  I  chops  de  wood  wid. 


2o8  THE   GOLD-BUG 

Mr.  Legrand.  To  be  sure !  you  are  left-handed  ; 
and  your  left  eye  is  on  the  same  side  as  your  left 
hand.  Now,  I  suppose  you  can  find  the  left  eye  of 
the  skull,  or  the  place  where  the  left  eye  has  been. 
Have  you  found  it } 

Jupiter  {after  a  long  pause).  Is  de  lef  eye  of  de 
skull  'pon  de  same  side  as  de  lef  hand  ob  de  skull, 
too  ?  —  'cause  the  skull  ain't  got  not  a  bit  ob  a  hand 
at  all.  Nebber  mind,  I  got  de  lef  eye  now  —  here 
de  lef  eye !  what  mus'  do  wid  it  '^. 

Mr.  Legrand.  Let  the  beetle  drop  through  it  as 
far  as  the  string  will  reach,  but  be  careful  and  not 
let  go  your  hold  of  the  string. 

Jupiter.  All  dat  done,  Massa  Will ;  mighty  easy 
thing  for  to  put  de  bug  fru  de  hole ;  look  out  for 
him  dar  below. 

Legrand  took  the  scythe  and  cleared  with  it  a  circular  space 
three  or  four  yards  in  diameter  just  beneath  the  hanging  beetle. 
Then  he  ordered  Jupiter  to  let  go  the  string  and  come  down  from 
the  tree.  Legrand  drove  a  peg  into  the  ground  at  the  precise  spot 
where  the  insect  fell.  Then  he  fastened  one  end  of  a  tape  measure 
to  the  tree,  uprolled  it  till  it  reached  the  peg,  and  then  farther  in 
the  same  direction  for  fifty  feet.  At  that  spot  all  three  men  fell  to 
digging  at  Legrand's  order.  After  digging  for  two  hours,  and  ex- 
cavating a  hole  four  feet  in  diameter  and  seven  feet  deep,  Legrand 
reluctantly  gave  the  order  to  stop  digging.  Jupiter  began  to  gather 
up  his  tools. 

Mr.  Legrand  (seizing  Jupiter  by  the  collar^.  You 
scoundrel !     You  black  villain  !     Speak,  I  tell  you  ! 


THE  GOLD-BUG  209 

Answer  me  this  instant!  Which  —  which  is  your 
left  eye? 

Jupiter.  Oh,  my  golly,  Massa  Will !  ain't  dis 
here  my  lef  eye  for  sartin  ?  {Pointing  to  his  right 
eye.) 

Mr.  Legrand.  I  thought  so !  I  knew  it !  hur- 
rah! Come!  we  must  go  back;  the  game's  not  up 
yet.  Jupiter,  come  here.  Was  the  skull  nailed  to 
the  limb  with  the  face  outwards,  or  with  the  face  to 
the  limb.'* 

Jupiter.  De  face  was  out,  massa,  so  dat  de  crows 
could  get  at  de  eyes  good,  widout  any  trouble. 

Mr.  Legrand.  Well,  then,  was  it  this  eye  or  that 
through  which  you  dropped  the  beetle?  {Touching 
both  of  Jupiter  s  eyes.) 

Jupiter  {touching  his  right  eye).  'Twas  this  one, 
massa,  de  lef  eye,  jis  as  you  tell  me. 

Mr.  Legrand.  That  will  do;  we  must  try  it 
again. 

Legrand  moved  the  peg  about  three  inches  to  the  westward,  took 
direction  and  measurements  as  before  and  began  digging  in  a  place 
several  yards  distant  from  the  first  spot.  In  about  an  hour  and  a 
half  a  mass  of  human  bones  was  uncovered.  Then  one  or  two 
strokes  of  the  spade  upturned  the  blade  of  a  Spanish  knife  and 
three  or  four  loose  pieces  of  gold  and  silver  coin.  Suddenly  the 
Doctor  caught  the  toe  of  his  boot  in  a  large  ring  of  iron,  half 
buried  in  the  loose  earth,  and  presently  they  uncovered  a  box  three 
and  a  half  feet  long,  three  feet  broad,  and  two  and  a  half  feet  deep* 
They  drew  back  the  sliding  bolts,  and  th-e  fays  of  the  lantern  flashed 
upon  a  confused  heap  of  gold  and  jewels.     Legrand  appeared 

KN.  DRAM.  READ. —  I4 


C2io; 


Digging  for  the  Treasure 


THE   GOLD-BUG  211 

exhausted  with  excitement.  Jupiter  fell  upon  his  knees  in  the  pit, 
and,  burying  his  naked  arms  up  to  the  elbows  in  gold,  exclaimed : 
"  And  dis  all  cum  ob  de  goole-bug,  what  1  'boosed  in  dat  sabage  kind 
ob  style.    Ain't  you  'shamed  ob  yourself,  nigger  ?    Answer  me  dat  1 " 

SCENE  V 

The  chest  was  full  to  the  brim,  and  Legrand  and  the  Doctor 
spent  the  whole  day  and  the  greater  part  of  the  next  night  examin- 
ing the  contents.  In  coin  there  was  rather  more  than  four  hun- 
dred  and  fifty  thousand  dollars.  There  was  not  a  particle  of 
silver.  All  was  gold  of  antique  date  and  of  a  great  variety. 
There  were  diamonds  —  a  hundred  and  ten  in  all,  and  not  one  of 
them  small;  eighteen  rubies  of  remarkable  brilliancy;  three 
hundred  and  ten  emeralds,  all  very  beautiful;  and  twenty-one 
sapphires,  with  an  opal.  Besides  all  this,  there  was  a  vast  quan- 
tity of  soHd  gold  ornaments  —  nearly  two  hundred  massive  gold 
finger  and  ear  rings;  rich  chains  —  thirty  of  these;  eighty-three 
very  large  and  heavy  crucifixes  ;  five  gold  censers  of  great  value  ; 
a  prodigious  golden  punch-bowl,  and  many  other  smaller  articles. 
There  were  one  hundred  and  ninety-seven  gold  watches,  all 
richly  jewelled  and  in  cases  of  great  worth.  When  they  had  con- 
cluded their  examination,  Legrand  gave  the  details  of  all  the  cir- 
cumstances connected  with  this  most  extraordinary  riddle. 

Mr.  Legrand.  You  remember  the  night  when  I 
handed  you  the  rough  sketch  I  had  made  of  the 
beetle  1  When  you  handed  me  the  scrap  of  parch- 
ment— 

Doctor.     The  scrap  of  paper,  you  mean. 

Mr.  Legrand.  No,  when  I  came  to  draw  upon 
it,  I  discovered  that  it  was  parchment.  It  was  very 
dirty,  you  remember.  I  was  about  to  crumple  it  up, 
when,  to  my  astonishment,  I  saw  the  figure  of  a 


212  THE   GOLD-BUG 

death's  head  just  where  I  had  made  the  drawing  of 
the  beetle'.  Upon  turning  over  the  paper,  I  saw 
my  own  sketch  just  as  I  had  made  it.  I  knew  that 
there  was  no  drawing  upon  the  paper  when  I  had 
made  my  sketch.  The  spot  where  we  discovered 
the  beetle  was  on  the  mainland,  about  a  mile  east- 
ward of  the  island.  Upon  my  taking  hold  of  it,  it 
gave  me  a  sharp  bite,  which  caused  me  to  let  it  drop. 
Jupiter,  looking  about  for  something  to  take  hold  of 
it  with,  found  this  scrap  of  paper  half  buried  in  the 
sand.  Near  the  spot  where  we  found  it  was  the 
remnant  of  what  had  been  a  ship's  long  boat.  You 
are  probably  wondering  what  connection  there  is  in 
all  this.  I  reply  that  the  skull,  or  death's  head,  is 
the  well-known  emblem  of  the  pirate.  The  flag  of 
the  death's  head  is  hoisted  in  all  engagements. 

Doctor.  But  you  say  that  the  skull  was  not  upon 
the  parchment  when  you  made  the  drawing  of  the 
beetle.  How,  then,  do  you  trace  any  connection 
between  the  boat  and  the  skull } 

Mr.  Legrand.  When  you  took  that  paper  from 
me,  you  sat  down  near  the  fire,  so  near  that  at  one 
time  I  feared  that  the  paper  would  drop  from  your 
hand  into  the  blaze.  When  I  considered  all  these 
particulars,  I  doubted  not  for  a  moment  that  heat 
had  brought  to  light  upon  the  parchment  the  skull 
which  I  saw  upon  it.  I  held  every  part  of  the 
parchment  over  glowing  heat,  and  after  a  little 
while  there  became  visible,  at  the  corner  of  the  slip. 


THE   GOLD-BUG 


213 


diagonally  opposite  from  the  drawing  of  the  death's 
head,  the  figure  of  what  I  at  first  supposed  to  be  a 
goat.     A  closer  scrutiny  satisfied  me  that  it  was  a  kid. 

Doctor.  Ha !  ha !  to  be  sure  I  have  no  right  to 
laugh  at  .you,  — a  million  and  a  half  of  money  is  too 
serious  a  matter  for  mirth,  —  but  pirates,  you  know, 
have  nothing  to  do  with  goats. 

Mr.  Legrand.  But  I  have  said  that  the  figure  was 
not  that  of  a  oroat. 

Doctor.  Well,  a  kid,  then  —  pretty  much  the 
same  thing. 

Mr.  Legrand,  Pretty  much,  but  not  altogether. 
You  may  have  heard  of  one  Captain  Kidd.  I  at 
once  looked  upon  the  figure  of  the  animal  as  a  kind 
of  signature.  You  have  heard,  of  course,  the  many 
stories  afloat  about  money  buried  somewhere  upon 
the  Atlantic  coast  by  Kidd  and  his  associates.  I 
felt  a  hope  that  the  parchment  held  a  lost  record  of 
the  place  of  deposit. 

Doctor.     But  how  did  you  proceed  .f^ 

Mr.  Legrand.  I  washed  the  parchment  thor- 
oughly, and  then  put  it  into  a  pan  over  lighted  char- 
coal. In  a  few  minutes  I  took  the  parchment  out 
and  found  these  characters  on  it. 

53ttt305))6^;4826)4l:) ;  8o6^;48t81|6o)) 
85;;]8*;48t83(88)5n;46(;88*96*?;8)*$(;485); 
5n2^t(;4956*2(5^  -  4)81[8*;4o69285);)9t8) 
4$$;i(|9;48o8i;8:8:j:i;48t85;4)485t5288o6* 
8 1  (t9;48;(88  ;4($.?34;48)4$;  1 6 1 ;  1 88;:!:.?; 


214  'rHK    GOLD-BUG 

Doctor,  But  I  am  as  much  in  the  dark  as  ever. 
Were  all  the  jewels  of  Golconda  awaiting  me  on  my 
solution  of  this  enigma,  I  am  quite  sure  that  I  should 
be  unable  to  earn  them. 

Mr,  Legrand.  And  yet  the  solution  is  ^not  diffi- 
cult. These  characters  form  a  cipher;  that  is  to  say, 
they  convey  a  meaning. 

Doctor.     And  you  really  solved  it  ? 

Mr.  Legrand.  •  Readily ;  I  have  solved  others 
much  more  difficult.  I  have  always  taken  interest 
in  such  riddles. 

Doctor.  I  suppose  you  missed  the  right  spot,  in 
the  first  attempt  at  digging,  through  Jupiter's  stu- 
pidity in  letting  the  bug  fall  through  the  right  in- 
stead of  through  the  left  eye  of  the  skull. 

Mr.  Legra7id.  Precisely.  But  for  my  conviction 
that  treasure  was  here  somewhere  actually  buried, 
we  might  have  had  all  our  labor  in  vain. 

Doctor.  Now  there  is  only  one  point  which 
puzzles  me.  What  are  we  to  make  of  the  skeleton 
found  in  the  hole } 

Mr.  Legrand.  I  am  no  more  able  to  answer  that 
question  than  you.  It  is  clear  that  Kidd  —  if  he 
secreted  this  treasure  —  must  have  had  assistance. 
But  when  the  labor  was  ended,  he  may  have  thought 
it  best  to  remove  all  sharers  in  his  secret. 

From  "  The  Gold-bug,"  by  Edgar  Allan  Poe  (adapted). 


A    SCENE    AT    KENILWORTH    CASTLE 

Robert  Dudley,  Earl  of  Leicester,  had  married  secretly  Amy 
Robsart.  He  was  generally  thought  to  be  Queen  Elizabeth's 
favorite  courtier,  and  she  had  shown  him  so  many  marks  of  her 
favor  that  he  feared  her  anger  if  she  should  know  of  his  secret 
marriage.  The  Queen  and  her  court  had  come  to  Kenilworth, 
Lord  Leicester's  casde,  for  the  May  revels.  Amy,  Leicester's 
wife,  had  also  come  to  Kenilworth,  having  escaped  from  the 
house  in  Cumnor  Place,  where  she  was  attended  by  Richard 
Varney,  Lord  Leicester's  servant.  The  earl  meant  to  tell  the 
Queen  of  his  marriage,  but  she  found  it  out  for  herself;  for  as 
she  was  strolling  about  the  estate,  she  suddenly  came  upon  Amy, 
who  was  vainly  trying  to  hide  in  a  grotto  from  the  approaching 
party. 

SCENE   I 

Queen  Elizabeth 

Amy,  Earl  of  Leicester's  wife 

Robert  Dudley,  Earl  of  Leicester 

F^arl  of  Shrewsbury 

Earl  of  Hunsdon 

Sir  Richard  Varney,  Leicester's  servant 

Queen,  How  now,  fair  nymph  of  this  lovely 
grotto,  —  art  thou  spellbound  and  struck  with 
dumbness  by  the  wicked  enchanter  whom  men 
term  Fear  t  We  are  his  sworn  enemy,  maiden,  and 
can  reverse  his  charm.     Speak,  we  command  thee. 

215 


Characters 


^^^  ^  Queen  Elizabeth  and  the  Earl  of  Leicester 


A   SCENE   AT   KENILWORTH    CASTLE  217 

[Amy  falls  on  her  knees   before  the    Queen  m   an 

agony  of  fear.'] 
What  may  this  mean  ?     This  is  a  stronger  passion 
than  suits  the  occasion.     Stand   up,  damsel;   what 
wouldst  thou  have  with  us  ? 

Amy.     Your  protection,  madam. 

Queen.  Each  daughter  of  England  has  it  while 
she  is  worthy  of  it.  Why,  and  in  what,  do  you  care 
for  protection  ? 

Amy  {frightened),     Alas  !  I  know  not. 

Queen.  This  is  folly,  maiden.  The  sick  man 
must  tell  his  malady  to  the  physician.  Nor  are  we 
accustomed  to  ask  questions  so  oft,  without  receiving 
an  answer. 

Amy  {stammering).  I  request — I  implore  — 
I  beseech  your  gracious  protection  —  against  —  one, 
Varney. 

Queen.  What,  Varney  — Sir  Richard  Varney 
—  the  servant  of  Lord  Leicester  !  What,  damsel, 
are  you  to  him,  or  he  to  you  .? 

Amy.  I  —  I  —  was  his  prisoner  —  and  he  prac- 
ticed on  my  life  —  and  I  broke  forth  ^  to  —  to  — 

Queen.  To  throw  thyself  on  my  protection, 
doubtless.  Thou  shalt  have  it,  —  that  is,  if  thou 
art  worthy ;  for  we  will  sift  this  matter  to  the  ut- 
termost. Thou  art  Amy,  daughter  of  Sir  Hugh 
Robsart,  of  Lidcote  Hall. 

Amy.  Forgive  me  —  forgive  me  —  most  gra- 
cious princess ! 


2i8  A   SCENE   AT   KENILWORTH    CASTLE 

Queen.  For  what  should  I  forgive  thee,  silly 
wench  ?  For  being  the  daughter  of  thine  own 
father  ?  Thou  art  brain-sick,  surely.  Well,  I  see 
I  must  wring  the  story  from  thee  by  inches.  Thou 
didst  deceive  thine  old  and  honored  father,  —  thy 
look  confesses  it,  —  and  married  this  same  Varney. 

Amy  {springing  to  her  feet).  No,  madam,  no  ; 
I  am  not  the  wretch  you  think  me.  I  am  not  the 
wife  of  that  villain !     I  am  not  the  wife  of  Varney  ! 

Queen,  Why,  woman,  I  see  thou  canst  talk  fast 
enough.  Tell  me,  woman,  whose  wife  art  thou.? 
Speak  out,  and  be  speedy.  Thou  wert  better  dally 
with  a  lioness  than  with  Elizabeth. 

Amy.     The  Earl  of  Leicester  knows  it  all. 

Queen,  The  Earl  of  Leicester!  The  Earl  of 
Leicester!  Woman,  he  takes  no  keep  of  such 
things  as  thou  art.  Thou  art  slandering  the  noblest 
lord  and  the  truest-hearted  gentleman  in  England ! 
But  thou  shalt  have  thy  hearing,  and  that  in  his 
presence.     Come  with  me ;  come  with  me  instantly ! 

\The  Queen  seizes  Amy  by  the  arm  and  walks  quickly 
toward  the  Earl  of  LeicesterT^ 

Where  is  my  Lord  of  Leicester.?     Stand  forth,  my 
Lord  of  Leicester!     Knowest  thou  this  woman.? 

\_Leicester  kneels  low  before  Elizabeth^ 

Leicester,  could  I  think  thou  hast  practiced  on  me, 
—  on  me,  thy  sovereign,  —  base  and  ungrateful  de- 
ception, by  all  that  is  holy,  false  lord,  that  head  of 


A   SCENE   AT  KENILWORTH   CASTLE  219 

thine  were  in  as  great  peril  as  ever  was  thy 
father's. 

Leicester.  My  head  cannot  fall  but  by  the  sen- 
tence of  my  peers.  To  them  I  will  plead,  and  not 
to  a  princess  who  thus  requites  my  faithful  service. 

Queen  {looking  around).  What !  my  lords,  we 
are  defied,  I  think ;  defied  in  the  castle  we  have  our- 
selves bestowed  on  this  proud  man !  My  Lord 
Shrewsbury,  you  are  marshal  of  England,  attach 
him  of  high  treason. 

Shrewsbury,     Whom  does  your  Grace  mean? 

Queen.  Whom  should  I  mean  but  that  traitor 
Dudley,  Earl  of  Leicester !  Cousin  of  Hunsdon,  take 
him  into  instant  custody  !     Make  haste  ! 

Hunsdon.  And  it  is  like  your  Grace  might  order 
me  to  the  tower  to-morrow  for  making  too  much 
hast-e.     I  do  beseech  you  to  be  patient. 

Queen.  Patient !  Name  not  the  word  to  me ! 
Thou  know'st  not  of  what  he  is  guilty ! 

Amy  (kneeling  before  the  Queen).  He  is  guilt- 
less, madam,  he  is  guiltless.  No  one  can  lay  aught 
to  the  charge  of  the  noble  Leicester. 

Queen.  Why,  minion,  didst  not  thou  thyself  say 
that  the  Earl  of  Leicester  knew'st  thy  whole 
history  .f* 

Amy.  Did  I  say  so }  Oh,  if  I  did,  I  foully  be- 
lied him. 

Queen.  Woman  !  I  will  know  who  has  moved 
thee  to  this;  or  my  wrath  —  and  the  wrath  of  kings 


220  A   SCENE   AT   KENILWORTH   CASTLE 

is  a  flaming  fire  —  shall  wither  and  consume  thee 
like  a  weed  in  the  furnace. 

Varney  {rushing  up  to  the  group).  Pardon,  my 
liege,  pardon  !  or  at  least  let  your  justice  avenge 
itself  on  me,  where  it  is  due ;  but  spare  my  noble, 
my  generous,  my  innocent  patron  and  master ! 

Amy  (starting  up).  I  beseech  your  Majesty,  im- 
prison me  in  the  lowest  dungeon  of  the  castle ! 
Deal  with  me  as  with  the  worst  of  criminals,  but 
spare  me  the  sight  of  that  most  shameless  villain ! 

Queeii.     And  why  ?     What  hath  he  done  to  thee  ? 

Amy.  Oh,  worse  than  sorrow,  madam ;  I  shall 
go  mad  if  I  look  longer  on  him ! 

Queen.  I  think  thou  art  distraught  already. 
My  Lord  Hunsdon,  look  to  this  poor  distressed 
young  woman,  and  let  het*  be  safely  bestowed  and 
in  honest  keeping  till  we  require  her  forthcoming. 

Hunsdon.  She  is  a  lovely  child ;  and,  though  a 
rough  nurse,  your  Grace  hath  given  her  a  kind  one. 
She  is  safe  with  me  as  one  of  my  own  ladybirds  of 
daughters. 

Queen.  My  Lord  of  Hunsdon  says  well;  he  is 
indeed  but  a  rough  nurse  for  so  tender  a  babe.  ( To 
Varney)  Speak,  Sir  Richard,  and  explain  these 
riddles. 

Varney.  Your  Majesty's  piercing  eye  has  already 
detected  the  cruel  malady  of  my  beloved  lady. 

Queen.  She  is  then  distraught?  Indeed,  we 
doubted  not  of  it.     I  found  her  moping  in  a  corner 


A   SCENE   AT   KENILWORTH   CASTLE  221 

of  yonder  grotto ;  and  every  word  she  spoke  —  which 
indeed  I  dragged  from  her  as  by  the  rack  —  she 
instantly  recalled  and  forswore.  But  how  came  she 
hither?     Why  had  you  her  not  in  safe-keeping  ? 

Varney.  My  gracious  Liege,  the  worthy  gentle- 
man under  whose  charge  I  left  her  has  come  hither 
just  now,  as  fast  as  man  and  horse  can  travel,  to  tell 
me  of  her  escape.     He  is  at  hand  for  examination. 

Queen.  Let  it  be  for  another  time.  But,  Sir 
Richard,  we  envy  you  not  your  domestic  happiness. 
Your  lady  seemed  ready  to  swoon  on  beholding  you. 

Var7iey.  It  is  the  nature  of  persons  in  her  disor- 
der, so  please  your  Grace,  to  be  ever  most  bitter 
against  their  nearest  and  dearest. 

Queen.     We  have  heard  so  indeed. 

Varney.  May  your  Grace  then  be  pleased  to 
command  my  unfortunate  wife  to  be  delivered  into 
the  keeping  of  her  friends  ? 

Queen.  You  are  something  too  hasty.  Master 
Varney ;  we  will  have  first  a  report  of  the  lady's 
health  from  our  own  physician.  You  shall  see  her, 
however,  so  that  if  there  be  any  quarrel  betwixt  you, 
you  may  make  it  up,  without  further  scandal  to  our 
court,  or  trouble  to  ourselves.  ( Turning  to  Leicester^ 
My  Lord  of  Leicester,  you  are  offended  with  us, 
and  we  have  right  to  be  offended  with  you.  We 
will  take  the  lion's  part  upon  us,  and  be  the  first  to 
forgive. 


222  A   SCENE   AT   KENILWORTH    CASTLE 


SCENE    II 


Characters  J 


[■Queen  Elizabeth 

Sir  Edmund  Tressilian 

Lord  Burleigh 
\  Earl  of  Leicester 


The  next  day  the  Earl  of  Leicester  confessed  to  the  Queen  his 
secret  marriage.  The  Queen  sent  post-haste  for  Sir  Edmund 
Tressihan,  a  Hfe-long  friend  of  the  Robsart  family.  When  he  was 
admitted  to  the  Queen's  presence,  he  found  Leicester,  his  arms 
crossed,  and  his  brows  bent  on  the  ground,  kneeling  motionless 
before  the  empty  chair  of  state,  from  which  the  Queen  had  just 
started  angrily. 

Queefi  (to  Tressilian).  Ho,  sir!  you  knew  of  this 
fair  work  !  You  are  an  accomplice  in  this  deception 
which  has  been  practiced  upon  us  !  Thou  know'st 
of  this  affair,  dost  thou  not } 

Tressilian.  Not,  gracious  madam,  that  this  poor 
lady  was  Countess  of  Leicester. 

Queen.  Nor  shall  any  one  know  her  for  such. 
Death  of  my  life  !  Countess  of  Leicester !  I  say 
Dame  Amy  Dudley — and  well  if  she  hath  not  cause 
to  write  herself  widow  of  the  traitor,  Robert  Dudley. 

Leicester.  Madam,  do  with  me  what  it  may  be 
your  will  to  do  ;  but  work  no  injury  on  this  gentle- 
man ;  he  hath  in  no  way  deserved  it. 

Queen  (rushing  up  to  Leicester).  And  will  he  be 
better  for  thy  intercession,  thou  doubly  false !  I 
could  tear  out  mine  eyes  for  their  blindness ! 


A   SCENE   AT  KENILWORTH   CASTLE  223 

Burleigh  (aside).  Madam,  remember  that  you 
are  a  queen  —  Queen  of  England  — mother  of  your 
people.  Give  not  way  to  this  wild  storm  of 
passion. 

Queen  {aside).  Burleigh,  thou  art  a  statesman,  — 
thou  dost  not,  thou  canst  not,  comprehend  half  the 
scorn,  half  the  misery,  that  man  has  poured  upon 
me ! 

Burleigh  [leading  the  Queen  aside).  Madam,  I 
am  a  statesman,  but  I  am  also  a  man  who  cannot 
have  a  wish  on  earth  but  your  glory  and  happiness. 
I  pray  you  to  be  composed. 

Queen.     Ah,  Burleigh,  thou  little  knowest  — 

Burleigh.  I  do  —  I  do  know,  my  honored  sov- 
ereign. 

Queen  {approach ing  Leicester) .  M y  L o  rd  S  h re ws- 
bury,  we  discharge  you  of  your  prisoner.  My  Lord 
Leicester,  rise  and  take  up  your  sword.  A  quarter 
of  an  hour's  restraint,  under  the  custody  of  our 
marshal  is,  we  think,  no  high  penance  for  the 
months  of  falsehood  practiced  upon  us.  My  Lord 
of  Leicester,  it  is  now  your  turn  to  tell  us  the  truth, 
an  exercise  to  which  you  seem  of  late  to  have  been 
too  much  a  stranger. 

Leicester.  Madam,  I  have  been  much  to  blame, 
—  more  even  than  your  just  resentment  has  ex- 
pressed. Yet,  madam,  let  me  say  that  my  guilt  was 
not  unprovoked ;  and  that  if  beauty  and  favor  could 
tempt  the  frail  heart  of  a  human  being,    I  might 


224  A  SCENE   AT  KENILWORTH   CASTLE 

plead  both  as  the  causes  of  my  concealing  this 
secret  from  your  Majesty. 

Quee7i  {angrily).  Now,  by  Heaven,  my  lord,  thy 
audacity  passes  the  bounds  of  belief  as  well  as  of 
patience!  But  it  shall  avail  thee  nothing.  What, 
ho!  my  lords,  come  all  and  hear  the  news.  My 
Lord  of  Leicester's  stolen  marriage  has  cost  Eng- 
land a  king!  Now,  is  this  not  too  insolent?  I 
could  not  grace  him  with  a  few  marks  of  court 
favor  but  he  must  presume  to  think  my  hand  and 
crown  at  his  disposal !  You,  however,  think  better 
of  me ;  and  I  can  pity  this  ambitious  man  as  I 
could  a  child  whose  bubble  of  soap  has  burst  be- 
tween his  hands.  We  go  to  the  presence  chamber. 
My  Lord  of  Leicester,  we  command  your  close  at- 
tendance on  us.  {Ttirnmg  to  the  nobles  near  her.) 
The  revels  of  Kenilworth  are  not  yet  exhausted,  my 
lords  and  ladies;  we  are  to  solemnize  the  noble 
owner's  marriage.  I  see  you  are  dying  of  curiosity 
to  know  the  happy  bride.  It  is  Amy  Robsart,  the 
same  who  yesterday  figured  as  the  wife  of  his 
servant,  Varney. 

Leicester  {in  a  low  tone).  I  beg  you,  madam, 
take  my  head,  as  you  threatened  in  your  anger,  and 
spare  me  these  taunts!  Urge  not  a  falling  man; 
tread  not  on  a  crushed  worm. 

Queen.  A  worm,  my  lord  1  Nay,  a  snake  is  the 
more  exact  likeness. 

Leicester    {aside).     For    your     own    sake  —  for 


A   SCENE   AT   KENILWORTH   CASTLE  225 

mine,  madam,  while  there  is  yet  some  reason  left 
in  me  — 

Queen  (aloud).  Speak  aloud,  my  lord,  and  at 
further  distance,  so  please  you ;  your  breath  thaws 
our  ruff.     What  have  you  to  ask  of  us  ? 

Leicester  (humbly).  Permission  to  travel  to 
Cumnor  Place. 

Queen.  To  fetch  home  your  bride?  Why,  aye, 
that  is  right.  But,  my  lord,  you  go  not  in  person. 
We  have  counted  upon  passing  certain  days  in  this 
Castle  of  Kenilworth,  and  it  were  slight  courtesy  to 
leave  us  without  a  landlord  during  our  residence 
here.  Tressilian  and  Raleigh  shall  go  to  Cumnor 
Place  instead  of  you.  Take  a  sufficient  force  with 
you,  gentlemen ;  bring  the  lady  here ;  lose  no  time, 
and  God  be  wi'  you  ! 

From  "Kenilworth,"  by  Sir  Walter  Scott  (adapted). 


KN.  DRAM.  READ. —  I5 


(226) 


Tell  before  Gesler 


SCENES   FROM   "WILLIAM   TELL" 

According  to  Swiss  tradition  William  Tell,  early  in  the  fourteenth 
century,  rescued  his  native  district  from  the  tyranny  of  Austria, 
when  Gesler,  the  tyrant  steward  of  the  Duke  of  Austria,  was  bar- 
barous in  his  treatment  of  the  Swiss.  Wars  with  Austria  followed, 
and  the  contest  ended  in  the  independence  of  Switzerland. 

The  two  following  scenes  show  the  result  of  the  revolt  of  Tell 
and  the  people  of  his  district.  Gesler's  men,  though  at  first  over- 
powered by  Tell  and  his  followers,  finally  made  Tell  a  prisoner 
and  brought  him  in  chains  before  Gesler. 

A  short  time  before  Tell's  arrest  Gesler,  wandering  through  the 
mountain  passes,  had  lost  his  way  and  had  been  guided  to  his 
home  by  a  young  mountain  boy  (Tell's  son,  Albert),  who  had  re- 
fused to  tell  his  father's  name  to  the  tyrant  lest  harm  might  come 
to  him  and  his  parents.  Gesler  refused  to  let  him  go  back  to  his 
home  unless  he  would  divulge  his  father's  name. 

SCENE   I 

Place  :  A  chamber  in  the  castle 

Gesler 
Rodolph 
Gerard 
Lutold 
Sarnem 
.Albert 

\_Enier  Gesler,  wilh  Rodolph,  Lulold,  Gerard,  and 

officers^ 
Gesler  {to  Rodolph).     Double  the  guards.     Stay  ! 
place  your  trustiest  men 
227 


Characters 


228  SCENES   FROM    ''WILLIAM   TELL" 

At  the  postern.     Stop!     You'd  go  with  half  your 

errand : 
I'll  tell  you  when  to  go !     Let  every  soul 
Within  the  walls  be  under  arms !     The  sick 
That  do  not  keep  their  beds,  or  can  rise  from  them, 
Must  take  a  weapon !     The  slaves  will  come, 
In  torrents  from  the  hills,  and,  like  a  flood, 
O'erwhelm  us !     Lutold,  'tis  our  final  order, 
On  pain  of  death,  no  quarter  shall  be  given ! 
What  word  now?   {To  Rodolph,  who  reenters^ 

Rodolph.     'Twas  a  false  alarm.     The  people 
Paid  prompt  submission  to  your  order;  one 
Alone  resisted,  whom  they  have  secured, 
And  bring  in  chains  before  you. 

Gesler,     So —  I  breathe 
Again  !     'Twas  false,  then,  that  our  soldiers  fled  ? 

Rodolph,     'Twas  but  a  party  of  them  fled,  my 
lord ; 
Which,  reenforced,  return'd  and  soon  o'erpower'd 
The  rash  offender. 

Gesler.     What !  fled  they  from  one .? 
A  single  man?     How  many  were  there? 

Rodolph.     Four, 
With  Sarnem. 

Gesler.     Sarnem  !     Did  he  fly  ? 

Rodolph.      He  did ; 
But  'twas  for  succor. 

Gesler.     Succor!     One   to  four.     I   should   like 
to  see 


SCENES   FROM   "WILLIAM   TELL"  229 

That  man. 

Rodolpli,     He's  here. 

Gesler,      Your     swords!  —  Stand     near    me!  — 
Beckon  some  of  those 
About  me.     I  would  be  attended.     If 
He  stirs,  dispatch  him. 

Rodolph.^     He's  in  chains,  my  lord. 

Gesler.     I  see  —  I  see  he  is. 

\_Enter  Sarnem  and  soldiers  with  Tell  in  chains^ 

Sarnem.     Down,  slave ! 
Behold  the  governor.     Down  !  —  Down  !  and  beg 
For  mercy ! 

Gesler.     Does  he  hear? 

Sarfiem.     Debate  it  not. 
Be  prompt.     Submission,  slave!     Thy  knee  —  thy 

knee ! 
Or  with  thy  life  thou  playest. 

Rodolph.     Let's  force  him  to 
The  ground. 

Gesler,     Can  I  believe  my  eyes }     He  smiles ! 

Gerard.     Why    don't   you    smite    him  for    that 
look? 

Gesler.     He  grasps 
His  chains  as  he  would  make  a  weapon  of  them 
To  lay  the  smiter  dead.     What  kind  of  man 
Is  this,  that  looks,  in  thraldom,  more  at  large, 
Than  they  who  lay  it  on  him  ? 

Rodolph.     Lo  you,  how 
The  caitiff  scowls!     Pull  out  his  eyes! 


230  SCENES   FROM    "WILLIAM    TELL" 

Lutold.     Lop  off 
A  limb  for  him. 

Gesler.     Why  speak'st  thou  not? 

Tell.     For  wonder. 

Gesler.     Wonder ! 

Tell.     Yes, 
That  thou  shouldst  seem  a  man  !  ^ 

Gesler.     What  should  I  seem  ? 

Tell.     A  monster! 

Gesler.     Ha !     Beware  —  think  on  thy  chains. 

Tell.     Though  they  were  doubled — though  they 
weigh'd  me  down 
Prostrate  to  the  earth,  methinks  I  could  rise  up 
Erect  with  nothing  but  the  honest  pride 
Of  telling  thee,  usurper,  to  the  teeth, 
Thou  art  a  monster !     Think  upon  thy  chains  ! 
How  came  they  on  me  ? 

Gesler.     Darest  thou  question  me  1 

Tell.     Darest  thou  not  answer.? 

Gesler.     Do  I  hear? 

TelL     Thou  dost ! 

Gesler.     Beware  my  vengeance ! 

Tell.     Can  it  more  than  kill  ? 

Gesler.     Enough,  it  can  do  that. 

Tell.     No  ;  not  enough  ! 
It  cannot  take  away  the  grace  of  life. 

Gesler.     But  it  can  make  thee  writhe  ? 

Tell.     It  may ! 

Gesler.     And  groan  ? 


SCENES   FROM    "WILLIAM   TELL" 


231 


TelL     It  may;  and  I  may  cry 
Go  on,  though  it  should  make  me  groan  again! 

Gesler,     Whence  comest  thou  ? 

TelL     From  the  mountains.     Wouldst  thou  learn 
What  news  from  thence  ? 

Gesler.     Canst  tell  me  any? 

TelL     Aye ! 
They  watch  no  more  the  avalanche. 

Gesler.     Why  so  ? 

TelL     Because  they  look  for  thee ! 

Gesler,     Where  is  thy  abode  ? 

TelL     I  told  thee  —  in  the  mountains. 

Gesler,     How  lies  it  ?  —  north  or  south  ? 

TelL     Nor  north,  nor  south. 

Gesler.     Is't  to  the  east  or  west,  then  } 

TelL     Where  it  lies 
Concerns  thee  not. 

Gesler,     It  does ! 

Tell,     And  if  it  does, 
Thou  shalt  not  learn. 

Gesler.     Art  married  ?  , 

TelL     Married  !  —  Yes. 

Gesler,     And  hast  a  family? 

TelL     A  son. 

Gesler.     A  son ! 
Sarnem ! 

Sarnem.     My  lord,  the  boy ! 
\Gesler  signs  to  Sarriem  to  keep  silence.,  and.,  whis- 
pering, sends  him  off.'] 


232  SCENES   FROM    ''WILLIAM   TELL" 

Tell  {aside).     The  boy  !  —  What  boy  ? 

Is't  mine  ?  — and  have  they  netted  my  young  fledg- 
ling ? 

Now  Heaven  support  me,  if  they  have !  He'll  own 
me, 

And  share  his  father's  ruin  !     But  a  look 

Would  put  him  on  his  guard  —  yet  how  to  give  it ! 

Now,  heart,  thy  nerve :  forget  thou'rt  flesh  —  be 
rock  ! 

They  come  —  They  come  !  —  That  step  ! — 

That  step  !  -^So  light  upon  the  ground  ! 

How  heavy  does  it  fall  upon  my  heart ! 

I  feel  my  child  !  —  'Tis  he ! 

We  can  but  perish. 

\Enter  Sarnem  with  Albert,  whose  eyes  are  riveted 
oil  TelVs  bow,  which  Sarnem  carries^ 

Albert   {aside).     Yes ;     I    was    right.     It    is    my 
father's  bow  ! 
For  there's  my  father!     I'll  not  own  him,  though  ! 
Sarnem.     See  ! 
Albert.     What  .^ 
Sarnem.     Look  there. 
Albert.     What  would  you  have  me  see? 
Sarnem.     Thy  father. 
Albert.     That  is  not  my  father,  sir. 
Tell.     My  boy  —  my  boy  —  my  own  brave  boy ! 

He's  safe  ! 
Sarnem{aside  to  Gesler).     They're  like  each  other. 


SCENES   FROM   "WILLIAM   TELL"  233 

Gesler.     Yet  I  see  no  sign 
Of  recognition  to  betray  the  tie 
That  binds  a  father  and  his  child. 

Sarnem.     My  lord, 
I'm  sure  it  is  his  father.     Look  at  them. 

Gesler  {rises).     We  shall  try. 
Lead  forth  the  caitiff ! 

Sarnem.     To  a  dungeon  ? 

Gesler.     No. 
Into  the  court. 

Sarnem.     The  court,  my  lord.f* 

Gesler.     And  tell 
The  headsman  to  make  ready.     Quick  !     He  dies ! 
The  slave  shall  die  !     You  mark'd  the  boy  ? 

Sarnem.     I  did. 
He  started  —  'Tis  his  father ! 

Gesler.     We  shall  see. 
Away  with  him  ! 

Tell.     Stop !  stay ! 

Gesler.     What  would  you  ? 

Tell.     Time,  — 
A  little  time  to  call  my  thoughts  together ! 

Gesler.     Thou  shalt  not  have  a  minute.  . 

Tell.     Some  one  then, 
To  speak  with ! 

Gesler.     Hence  with  him  I 

Tell.     A  moment,  stop ! 
Let  me  speak  to  the  boy. 

Gesler.     Is  he  thy  son  ? 


234  SCENES   FROM    "WILLIAM   TELL" 

TelL     And  if 
He  were,  art  thou  so  lost  to  nature  as 
To  send  me  forth  before  his  face  to  die  ? 

Gesler.       Well,  speak  with  him.     Now,  Sarnem, 
mark  them  well. 

\_Albert  goes  to  TellT^ 

TelL     Thou  dost   not  know  me,  boy ;  and  well 
for  thee 
Thou  dost  not.      I'm  the  father  of  a  son 
About  thy  age.     I  dare  not  tell  thee  where 
To  find  him,  lest  he  should  be  found  of  those 
'Twere  not  so  safe  for  him  to  meet  with.     Thou, 
I  see,  wast  born,  like  him,  upon  the  hills; 
If  thou  shouldst  scape  thy  present  thraldom,  thou 
Mayst  chance  to  cross  him ;  if  thou  shouldst,  I  pray 

thee 
Relate  to  him  what  has  been  passing  here. 
And  say  I  laid  my  hand  upon  thy  head. 
And  said  to  thee  —  If  he  were  here,  as  thou  art. 
Thus  would  I  bless  him.     Mayst  thou  live,  my  boy. 
To  see  thy  country  free,  or  die  for  her 
As  I  do! 

Sarnem.     Mark  !  —  He  weeps. 

Tell.     Were  he  my  son. 
He  would  not  shed  a  tear ! 
Now  were  he  by,  I'd  talk  to  him,  and  his  cheek 
Should  never  blanch,  nor  moisture  dim  his  eye,  — 
I'd  talk  to  him  !  — 


SCENES   FROM    "WILLIAM   TELL"  235 

Sar7iem.     He  falters. 

Tell.     'Tis  too  much  ! 
And  yet  it  must  be  done  !     I'd  talk  to  him  — 

Gesler,     Of  what  ? 

Tell  {turns  to  Gesler).     The  mother,  tyrant,  whom 
thou  dost  make 
A  widow  of!     I'd    talk   to   him  of   her!    {Turns  to 

Albert.) 
I'd  bid  him  tell  her,  next  to  liberty. 
Her  name  was  the  last  words  my  lips  pronounced ! 
And  I  would  charge  him  never  to  forget 
To  love  and  cherish  her,  as  he  would  have 
His  father's  dying  blessing  rest  upon  him  ! 

Sarnem,     You  see,  what  one  suggests,  the  other 
acts. 

Tell  {aside).     So  well  he  bears  it,  I  almost  give 
way  ! 
My  boy  !  my  boy !  —  O  for  the  hills  !  —  the  hills  ! 
To  see  him  bound  along  their  tops  again  — 

Sarnem.     Was  there    not  all   the  father  in  that 
look.? 

Gesler.     Yet  'tis  against  nature. 

Sarnem.     Not  if  he  believes 
Owning  the  boy,  the  son  belike  might  share 
The  father's  fate. 

Gesler.      I  did  not  think  of  that ! 
I  thank  thee,  Sarnem,  for  the  thought.     'Tis  well 
The  boy  is  not  thy  son.     He  is  about 
To  die  along  with  thee. 


236  SCENES   FROM    "WILLIAM   TELL" 

Tell.     To  die  !     For  what  ? 

Gesler.     For  having  braved  my  power,  as  thou  hast ! 
Lead 
Them  forth. 

Tell.     He's  but  a  child. 

Gesler.     Away  with  them  ! 

Tell     Perhaps  an  only  child. 

Gesler.     No  matter. 

Tell     He 
May  have  a  mother. 

Gesler.     So  the  viper  hath  ; 
And  yet  who  spares  it  for  the  mother's  sake? 

Tell     I  talk  to  stone  !     I  talk  to  it  as  though 
'Twere  flesh,  yet  know  'tis  none ! 
—  Come,  my  boy  !     I  taught  thee  how  to  live  !  — 
I'll  show  thee  how  to  die  — 

Gesler.     He  is  thy  child  ! 

Tell  {bursting  into  tears,  and  embracing  Albert). 
He  is  my  child  ! 

Gesler.     I've    wrung    a    tear    from    him !      Thy 
name  ? 

Tell.     My  name.-^ 
It  matters  not  to  keep  it  from  thee  now; 
My  name  is  Tell. 

Gesler.     What !  —  William  Tell .? 

Tell.     The  same. 

Gesler.     What !  he  so  famed  'bove  all  his  country- 
men 
For  guiding  o'er  the  stormy  lake  the  boat  ? 


SCENES   FROM    "WILLIAM   TELL"  237 

And  such  a  master  of  his  bow,  'tis  said 
His  arrows  never  miss?  —  Indeed  !  —  I'll  take 
Exquisite  vengeance  !  —  Mark  ! —  I'll  spare  thy  life, 
Thy  boy's,  too. —  Both  of  you  are  free  —  on  one  con- 
dition. 

Tell.     Name  it. 

Gesler.     I  would  see  you  make 
A  trial  of  your  skill  with  that  same  bow 
You  shoot  so  well  with. 

TelL     Please  you,  name  the  trial 
You  would  have  me  make. 

Gesler.     You  look  upon  your  boy 
As  though  instinctively  you  guess'd  it. 

Tell.     Look 
Upon  my  boy !  —  What  mean  you  }     Look  upon 
My  boy  as  though  I  guess'd  it !  —  Guess'd  the  trial 
You  would  have  me  make  !     Guess'd  it,  instinctively! 
Instinctively  !     You  do  not  mean }  —  No !  —  No !  — 
You  would  not  have  me  make  a  trial  of 
My  skill  upon  my  child  !     Impossible  ! 
I  do  not  guess  your  meaning. 

Gesler.     I  would  see 
Thee  hit  an  apple  at  the  distance  of 
A  hundred  paces. 

Tell.     Is  my  boy  to  hold  it } 

Gesler.     No. 

TelL     No ! —  I'll  send   the    arrow    through    the 
core ! 

Gesler.     It  is  to  rest  upon  his  head. 


238  SCENES   FROM     'WILLIAM   TELL" 

Tell.     O  Nature ! 
Thou  hear'st  him  ! 

Gesler.     Thou  dost  hear  the  choice  I  give  — 
Such  trial  of  the  skill,  thou'rt  master  of, 
Or  death  to  both  of  you,  not  otherwise 
To  be  escaped. 

Tell.     Oh,  monster! 

Gesler.     Wilt  thou  do  it  ? 

Albert,     He  will!  he  will! 

TelL     Ferocious  monster !     Make 
A  father  murder  his  own  child  I 

Gesler.     Take  off 
His  chains,  if  he  consents. 

Tell.     With  his  own  hand  I 

Gesler.     Does  he  consent? 

Albert.     He  does. 

\_G ester  sights  to  his  officers,  who  proceed  to  take  off 
TetPs  chains,  Tell  all  the  while  unconscious  of 
what  they  do.^ 

Tell.     With  his  own  hand  !  — 
Murder  his  child  with  his  own  hand! 
The  hand  I've  led  him,  when  an  infant,  by  I 
'Tis  beyond  horror — 'Tis  most  horrible! 
Amazement! — 'Tis  too  much  for  flesh  and  blood 
To  bear! —  I  should  be  made  of  steel  to  stand  it ! 
And  I  believe  I  am,  almost,  about 
To  turn  to  some  such  thing ;  for  feeling  grows 
Benumb'd  within  me,  that  I  seem  to  lose 


SCENES   FROM   "WILLIAM   TELL"  239 

Almost  the  power  of  hating  him,  and  all's 

A  calm,  where  all,  but  now,  was  raging  tempest ! 

\^His  chains^  which  they  have  been  employed  in  unloos- 
ing, fall  off.'] 

What!  —  Do  you  make  me  ready,  while  I  wist  not? 

\^Lifts  the  manacles  from    the  ground,  and  holds 
them  to  the  soldiers.] 

Villains!  put  on  my  chains  again.     My  hands 
Are  free  from  blood  !  and  have  no  gust  for  it, 
That   they    would    drink    my    child's!  —  Here!  — 

Here!— I'll  not 
Murder  my  boy  for  Gesler ! 

Albert.     Father — Father! 
You  will  not  hit  me,  father ! 

Tell     Hit  thee!  — Send 
The  arrow  through  thy  brain  !  —  or,  missing  that, 
Shoot  out  an  eye !  —  or,  if  thine  eye  escapes, 
Mangle  the  cheek  I've  seen  thy  mother's  lips 
Cover  with  kisses  !  —  Hit  thee  !  —  Hit  a  hair 
Of  thee,  and  cleave  thy  mother's  heart !     Who's  he 
That     bids    me    do    it !  —  Show    him    me,  —  the 

monster ! 
Make  him  perceptible  unto  my  reason 
And  heart!     In  vain  my  senses  vouch  for  it! 
I  hear  he  lives  !  —  I  see  it !  —  but  it  is 
A  prodigy  that  nature  can't  believe ! 


240  SCENES   FROM   "WILLIAM   TELL'' 

Gesler.     Dost  thou  consent  ? 

Tell.     Give  me  my  bow  and  quiver. 

Gesler.     For  what  ? 

Tell.     To  shoot  my  boy  ! 

Albert.     No,  father!    no, 
To  save  me !  —  You'll  be  sure  to  hit  the  apple. 
Will  you  not  save  me,  father? 

Tell.     Lead  me  forth  !  — 
I'll  make  the  trial ! 

Albert.     Thank  you ! 

Tell.     Thank  me  !  —  Do 
You  know  for  what  ?  —  I  will  not  make  the  trial, 
To  take  him  to  his  mother  in  my  arms. 
And  lay  him  down  a  corse  before  her ! 

Gesler.     Then 
He  dies  this  moment;  and  you,  certainly, 
Murder  the  child,  whose  life  you  have  a  chance 
To  save,  and  will  not  use  it. 

Tell.     Well— I'll  do  it: 
I'll  make  the  trial. 

Albert  {runs  up  to  Tell a7id embraces  him).  Father! 


SCENES   FROM   ' 

WILLIAM   TELL 

SCENE    II 

Gesler 

Tell 

Verner 

Characters  < 

Albert 

Sarnem 

Liitold 

Michael 

241 


\_E7tler  burghers  and  women,  Lutold,  Rodolph,  Ger- 
ald, Sarnem,  Gesler,  Tell,  Albert,  and  a  soldier 
bearing  TelFs  bow  and  quiver,  another  with  a 
basket  of  apples,  soldiers^ 

Gesler.     That  is  your  ground.     Now  shall  they 
measure,  thence 
A  hundred  paces.     Take  the  distance. 

Tell.     Is 
The  line  a  true  one  ? 

Gesler.     True  or  not,  what  is't 
To  thee  ? 

Tell.     What  is't  to  me }     A  little  thing, 
A  very  little  thing  —  a  yard  or  two 
Is  nothing  here  or  there  —  were  it  a  wolf 
I  shot  at !     Never  mind  ! 

Gesler.     Be  thankful,  slave. 
Our  Grace  accords  thee  life  on  any  terms. 

Tell.     I  will  be  thankful,  Gesler!     Villain,  stop! 
You  measure  to  the  sun. 

Gesler.     And  what  of  that  ? 

KN.  DRAM.  READ. —  16 


242  SCENES   FROM    "WILLIAM   TELL" 

What  matter,  whether  to  or  from  the  sun  ? 

Tell.     I'd  have  it  at  my  back  !  —  The  sun  should 
shine 
Upon  the  mark,  and  not  on  him  that  shoots. 
I  cannot  see  to  shoot  against  the  sun ! 
I  will  not  shoot  against  the  sun ! 

Gesler.     Give  him  his  way!  —  Thou  hast  cause 
to  bless  my  mercy. 

TelL     I  shall  remember  it.     I'd  like  to  see 
The  apple  I'm  to  shoot  at. 

Soldier  (with  the  basket  of  apples) .     Here  ! 

Gesler.     Show  me 
The  basket !  —  There  — 

Tell.     You've  pick'd  the  smallest  one. 

Gesler.      I  know  I  have. 

Tell.     O  !    do  you  }  —  But  you  see 
The  color  on't  is  dark —  I'd  have  it  light, 
To  see  it  better. 

Gesler.     Take  it  as  it  is : 
Thy  skill  will  be  the  greater  if  thou  hitt'st  it. 
Well !  choose  thyself. 

\^Hands  a  basket  of  apples.      Tell  takes  one7[ 

Tell.     Have  I  a  friend  among 
The  lookers  on  ? 

Verner.     Here,  Tell ! 

Tell.     The  boy  !  —  the  boy  !  —  Think'st  thou  he 

has  the  courage  to  stand  it  .^^ 
Verner.     Yes. 


SCENES   FROM    "WILLIAM   TELL"  243 

Tell,     Does  he  tremble  ? 

Verner.     No. 

Tell.     Art  sure? 

Verner.     I  am. 

Tell.     How  looks  he  ? 

Verner.     Clear  and  smilingly. 
If  you  doubt  it  —  look  yourself. 

Tell.     No  —  no  —  my  friend, 
To  hear  it  is  enough ! 

Verner,     He  bears  himself 
So  much  above  his  years  — 

Tell.     I  know !  —  I  know. 

Verner.     With  constancy  so  modest  — 

Tell.     I  was  sure 
He  would  — 

Verner.     And  looks  with  such  relying  love 
And  reverence  upon  you. 

Tell.     Man!     Man!     Man! 
No  more !     Already  I'm  too  much  the  father 
To  act  the  man  !  —  Verner,  no  more,  my  friend  ! 
I  would  be  flint  — flint  —  flint !     Don't  make  me  feel 
I'm  not  —  You  do  not  mind  me  !  —  Take  the  boy 
And  set  him,  Verner,  with  his  back  to  me. 
Set  him  upon  his  knees  —  and  place  the  apple 
Upon  his  head,  so  that  the  stem  may  front  me  — 
Thus,  Verner.     Charge  him  to  keep  steady.     Tell 

him  I'll  hit  the  apple  ! —  Verner,  do  all  this 
More  briefly  than  I  tell  it  thee. 

Verner.     Come,  Albert! 


244  SCENES   FROM   "WILLIAM   TELL" 

Albert,     May  I  not  speak  with  him  before  I  go  ? 

Veruer.     No  — 

Albert.     I  would  only  kiss  his  hand. 

Verner.     You  must  not. 

Albert.     I  must !     I  cannot  go  from  him  without ! 

Verner.     It  is  his  will  you  should. 

Albert.     His  will,  is  it .? 
I  am  content  then — come. 

TelL     My  boy  !     {Holding  out  his  arms  to  him) 

Albert.     My  father!     {Running  into  Tell' s  arms,) 

Tell.     If  thou  canst  bear  it,  should  not  \}  —  Go 
now, 
My  son  — and  keep  in  mind  that  I  can  shoot. 
Go,  boy.     Be  thou  but  steady,  I  shall  hit 
The  apple.    {Kisses  him)    Go !  —  God  bless  thee !  — 
Go  !  —  My  bow  !     {Sarnem  gives  him  the  bow) 
Thou  wilt  not  fail  thy  master,  wilt  thou  ?  —  Thou 
Hast  never  fail'd  him  yet,  old  servant.  —  No  ! 
I'm  sure  of  thee  —  I  know  thy  honesty, 
Thou'rt    stanch  !  —  Stanch  !  —  I'd   deserve    to   find 

thee  treacherous. 
Could  I  suspect  thee  so.     Come,  I  will  stake 
My  all  upon  thee !     Let  me  see  my  quiver. 

Gesler.     Give  him  a  single  arrow. 

Tell.     Do  you  shoot } 

Lutold.     I  do. 

Tell.     Is't  so  you  pick  an  arrow,  friend  ? 
The  point,  you  see,  is  blunt,  the  feather  jagg'd; 
That's  all  the  use  'tis  fit  for,     {Breaks  it) 


SCENES  FROM   "WILLIAM   TELL'»  ^45 

Gesler.     Let  him  have 
Another. 

Tell.     Why,  'tis  better  than  the  first, 
But  yet  not  good  enough  for  such  an  aim 
As  I'm  to  take.     'Tis  heavy  in  the  shaft : 
I'll  not  shoot  with  it !     {Throws  it  away.)     Let  me 

see  my  quiver. 
Bring  it !  'tis  not  one  arrow  in  a  dozen 
I'd  take  to  shoot  with  at  a  dove,  much  less 
A  dove  like  that.       What  is't  you  fear.^     I'm  but 
A  naked  man! —  A  wretched,  naked  man! 
Your  helpless  thrall,  alone  in  the  midst  of  you, 
With  every  one  of  you  a  weapon  in 
His  hand.     What  can  I  do  in  such  a  strait 
With  all  the  arrows  in  that  quiver?     Come, 
Will  you  give  it  me  or  not  ? 

Gesler.     It  matters  not. 
Show  him  the  quiver.     You're  resolved,  I  see, 
Nothing  shall  please  you. 

\Tell  kneels  and  picks  out  an  arrow,  which  he  hides 
under  his  vest,  and  then  selects  another^ 

Tell.     Am  I  so  ?  —  That's  strange. 
That's  very  strange! —  Is  the  boy  ready? 

Verner.     Yes. 

Tell.     I'm  ready  too  !  —  Keep  silence,  everyone! 
And  stir  not,  for   my  child's   sake!  —  And  let  me 

have 
Your  prayers  —  your  prayers  —  and  be  my  witnesses. 


246  SCENES   FROM    "WILLIAM   TELL" 

That  if  his  Hfe's  in  peril  from  my  hand, 
'Tis  only  for  the  chance  of  saving  it ! 
Now,  friends,  for  mercy's  sake  keep  motionless 
And  silent. 

\Tell  shoots^  and  a  shout  of  wonder  and  exultatio7i 
bursts  from  the  crowd.  Tell  falls  on  his  hiees 
and  with  difficulty  supports  himself^ 

Verner   {rushing  in  with  Albert^.     Thy  boy  is 

safe;  no  hair  of  him  is  touch'd  ! 
Albert.     Father,    I'm  safe  —  your  Albert's  safe. 

Dear  father, 
Speak  to  me !  speak  to  me  ! 
Verner.     He  cannot,  boy ! 
Albert.     You  grant  him  life  ? 
Gesler.     I  do. 
Albert.     And  are  we  free  ? 
Gesler.     You  are. 

Albert.     Thank  Heaven  !  thank  Heaven  ! 
Verner.     Open  his  vest, 
And  give  him  air. 

\_Albert  opens  his  fathers  vest,  and  an  arrow  drops. 
Tell  starts.,  fixes  his  eyes  on  Albert,  ajid  clasps 
him  to  his  breast^ 

Tell.     My  boy !  my  boy  ! 
Gesler.     For  what 
Hid  you  that  arrow  in  your  breast  ?     Speak,  slave  ! 
Verner.    He  cannot !  —  He's  o'ercome !  ( Whispers 
to  Tell.) 


SCENES   FROM    "  WILLIAM  ^TELL"  247 

William,  the  tyrant  stands  aloof  from  all! 

Thy  deadly  aim,  alone,  transfixes  him. 

And  with  him  all  the  rest,  through  fear  for  him; 

While  pace  by  pace    thou  canst    withdraw ;  —  but 

gain 
A  dozen  yards,  thou'rt  free  !     I'll  mind  the  boy! 
Gesler.     How  came    that    arrow    in   thy  breast  ? 

Speak,  slave ! 
TelL     To  kill  thee,  tyrant,  had  I  slain  my  son  ! 
And    now  beware  I     {Tell  suddenly   takes   aim   at 

Gesler^ 
Stir  thou,  or  any  stir  ! 
The  shaft  is  in  thy  heart ! 

\Tell  retreats  slowly,  while  Verner  removes  Albert, 
Gesler  and  the  rest^  following  Tell  with  their 
eyes,  remaiii  in  breathless  and  motionless  sus- 
pense,'] 

Sarnem.     He  shoots ! 

Gesler.     O !      {Falls    dead,    transfixed    with    the 

arrow  ^ 
Sarnem.       Pursue    him! — Hold!       A    host    of 
friends  have  join'd  him. 
And  all  in  arms !  —  They  now  advance  ! 

Lutold.     On  this  side 
Another  speeds ! 

Sarnem,     Back  to  the  castle ! 
L  u  told.     Look!    ( Michael  a  nd  h  is  friends  appear 
on  the  ra^nparts.) 
The  castle  is  betray 'd. 


248  SCENES   FROM    ''WILLIAM   TELL" 

MichaeL     We  thank  you,  friends, 
For  changing  quarters  with  us ! 

Sarnem.     Ha !  —  Shut  out ! 
Surrounded ! 

\Enter  Swiss,  led  by  Tell.^ 

Tell.     Yield  !     Resistance  now  is  hopeless ! 
Your  lives  are  spared !  —  The  tyrant's  will  suffice! 
Our  country  is  free  !     Austrians,  you'll  quit  a  land 
You  never  had  a  right  to :  and  remember, 
The  country's  never  lost  that's  left  a  son 
To  struggle  with  the  foe  that  would  enslave  her ! 

From  "  William  Tell,"  by  Sheridan  Knowles. 


SCENES    FROM  "JULIUS   C^SAR" 

When  the  Roman  general,  Julius  Caesar,  returned  to  Rome  after 
his  splendid  triumphs,  many  of  the  people  were  eager  to  make 
him  their  king,  though  Rome  was  at  that  time  a  republic.  Cassius 
and  a  party  of  famous  Romans,  among  them  the  patriot  Brutus, 
formed  a  conspiracy  against  Caesar,  and  were  successful  in  causing 
his  death.  The  Forum,  the  market  place  of  Rome,  was  immedi- 
ately thronged  with  angry  citizens,  threatening  the  conspirators. 
Mark  Antony,  one  of  Caesar's  supporters,  asked  permission  of  the 
conspirators  to  speak  at  Caesar's  funeral.  This  permission  was 
granted  by  Brutus,  who  did  not  realize  the  power  of  Antony's 
oratory. 

SCENE   I 

Place  :  The  Forum 

Brutus 
Cassius 
Antony 
Characters  \  First  Citizen 
Second  Citizen 
Third  Citizen 
Fourth  Citizen 

\^Enter  Brutus  mid  Cassius  and  a  throng  of  Citi- 

2ens.~\ 

Citizens.     We  will  be  satisfied ;  let  us  be  satisfied. 
Brutus.     Then  follow  me,  and  give  me  audience, 
friends. 

249 


250  SCENES   FROM    "JULIUS   C^SAR " 

Cassius,  go  you  into  the  other  street, 

And  part  the  numbers. 

Those  that  will  hear  me  speak,  let  'em  stay  here ; 

Those  that  will  follow  Cassius,  go  with  him  ; 

And  public  reasons  shall  be  rendered 

Of  Caesar's  death. 

First  Citizen,         I  will  hear  Brutus  speak. 
I  Second  Citizen.     I  will  hear  Cassius  ;   and  com- 
pare their  reasons, 
When  severally  we  hear  them  rendered. 

\_Exit  Cassius^  with  some  of  the  Citizens.     Brutus 
goes  into  the  pulpit^ 

Third  Citizen.  The  noble  Brutus  is  ascended  : 
silence  ! 

Brutus,     Be  patient  till  the  last. 

Romans,  countrymen,  and  lovers  !  hear  me  for 
my  cause,  and  be  silent  that  you  may  hear ;  believe 
me  for  mine  honor,  and  have  respect  to  mine  honor, 
that  you  may  believe  ;  censure  me  in  your  wisdom 
and  awake  your  senses,  that  you  may  the  better 
judge.  If  there  be  any  in  this  assembly,  any  dear 
friend  of  Caesar's,  to  him  I  say  that  Brutus'  love  to 
Caesar  was  no  less  than  his.  If  then  that  friend 
demand  why  Brutus  rose  against  Caesar,  this  is  my 
answer, —  Not  that  I  loved  Caesar  less,  but  that  I 
loved  Rome  more.  Had  you  rather  Caesar  were 
living  and  die  all  slaves,  than  that  Caesar  were  dead, 
to  live  all  freemen  1     As  Caesar  loved  me,  I  weep 


SCENES   FROM   "JULIUS   C^SAR "  251 

for  him ;  as  he  was  fortunate,  I  rejoice  at  it ;  as  he 
was  valiant,  I  honor  him,  but  as  he  was  ambitious, 
I  slew  hrm.  There  is  tears  for  his  love,  joy  for 
his  fortune,  honor  for  his  valor,  and  death  for  his 
ambition.  Who  is  here  so  base  that  would  be  a 
bondman  ?  If  any,  speak ;  for  him  have  I  offended. 
Who  is  here  so  rude  that  would  not  be  a  Roman  ? 
If  any,  speak  ;  for  him  have  I  offended.  Who  is 
here  so  vile  that  will  not  love  his  country  ?  If  any, 
speak;  for  him  have  I  offended.  I  pause  for  a 
reply. 

A//.     None,  Brutus,  none. 

Bmtus.  Then  none  have  I  offended.  I  have 
done  no  more  to  Caesar  than  you  shall  do  to  Brutus. 

\Enter  Antony  and  others,  with  Ccesars  dody.'\ 

Here  comes  his  body,  mourned  by  Mark  Antony : 
who,  though  he  had  no  hand  in  his  death,  shall  re- 
ceive the  benefit  of  his  dying,  a  place  in  the  com- 
monwealth; as  which  of  you  shall  not.^*  With  this 
I  depart,  —  that,  as  I  slew  my  best  lover  for  the 
good  of  Rome,  I  have  the  same  dagger  for  myself, 
when  it  shall  please  my  country  to  need  my  death. 

All.     Live,  Brutus  !  live,  live  ! 

First  Citizen.  Bring  him  with  triumph  home  to 
his  house. 

Second  Citizen.  Give  him  a  statue  with  his  an- 
cestors. 

Third  Citizen.     Let  him  be  Caesar. 


252  SCENES   FROM    "JULIUS   C^SAR » 

Fourth  Citizen,  Caesar's  better  parts 

Shall  be  crowned  in  Brutus. 

First  Citizen.     We'll  bring  him  to  his  house  with 

shouts  and  clamors. 
Brutus.     My  countrymen,  — 
Second  Citizen.     Peace,  silence  !     Brutus  speaks. 
First  Citizen,     Peace,  ho  ! 

Brutus,     Good  countrymen,  let  me  depart  alone. 
And,  for  my  sake,  stay  here  with  Antony: 
Do  grace  to  Caesar's  corpse,  and  grace  his  speech 
Tending  to  Caesar's  glories,  which  Mark  Antony, 
By  our  permission,  is  allowed  to  make. 
I  do  entreat  you,  not  a  man  depart. 
Save  I  alone,  till  Antony  have  spoke.  \^Exit. 

First  Citizen.     Stay,  ho !  and  let  us  hear  Mark 

Antony. 
Third  Citizen.     Let  him  go  up  into    the   public 
chair ; 
We'll  hear  him.     Noble  Antony,  go  up. 

Antony.     For   Brutus'  sake,  I  am  beholding  to 
you. 

\Goes  into  the  pulpit^ 

Fourth  Citizen.     What  does  he  say  of  Brutus  ? 
Third  Citizen.  He  says,  for  Brutus'  sake 

He  finds  himself  beholding  to  us  all. 

Fourth  Citizen.     'Twere  best  he  speak  no  harm 

of  Brutus  here. 
First  Citizen.     This  Caesar  was  a  tyrant. 


SCENES   FROM    "JULIUS   C^SAR"  253 

Third  Citizen.  Nay,  that's  certain  : 

We  are  blest  that  Rome  is  rid  of  him. 

Second  Citizen.     Peace  !  let  us  hear  what  Antony- 
can  say. 

Antony.     You  gentle  Romans,  — 

Citizens.  Peace,  ho  !  let  us  hear  him. 

Antony.     Friends,  Romans,  countrymen,  lend  me 
your  ears ; 
I  come  to  bury  Caesar,  not  to  praise  him. 
The  evil  that  men  do  lives  after  them ; 
The  good  is  oft  interred  with  their  bones ; 
So  let  it  be  with  Caesar.     The  noble  Brutus 
Hath  told  you  Caesar  was  ambitious : 
If  it  were  so,  it  was  a  grievous  fault. 
And  grievously  hath  Caesar  answered  it. 
Here,  under  leave  of  Brutus  and  the  rest, -^ 
For  Brutus  is  an  honorable  man ; 
So  are  they  all,  all  honorable  men,  — 
Come  I  to  speak  in  Caesar's  funeral. 
He  was  my  friend,  faithful  and  just  to  me: 
But  Brutus  says  he  was  ambitious ; 
And  Brutus  is  an  honorable  man. 
He  hath  brought  many  captives  home  to  Rome, 
Whose  ransom  did  the  general  coffers  fill : 
Did  this  in  Caesar  seem  ambitious  1 
When  that  the  poor  have  cried,  Caesar  hath  wept : 
Ambition  should  be  made  of  sterner  stuff: 
Yet  Brutus  says  he  was  ambitious ; 
And  Brutus  is  an  honorable  man. 


254  SCENES   FROM    ''JULIUS   C^SAR " 

You  all  did  see  that  on  the  Lupercal 

I  thrice  presented  him  a  kingly  crown, 

Which  he  did  thrice  refuse :  was  this  ambition  ? 

Yet  Brutus  says  he  w^as  ambitious ; 

And,  sure,  he  is  an  honorable  man. 

I  speak  not  to  disprove  what  Brutus  spoke, 

But  here  I  am  to  speak  what  I  do  know. 

You  all  did  love  him  once,  not  without  cause: 

What  cause  withholds  you  then  to  mourn  for  him  ? 

0  judgment !  thou  art  fled  to  brutish  beasts. 
And  men  have  lost  their  reason.      Bear  with  me ; 
My  heart  is  in  the  coffin  there  with  Caesar, 

And  I  must  pause  till  it  come  back  to  me. 

First  Citizen,     Methinks  there  is  much  reason  in 

his  sayings. 
Second  Citizen.     If  thou  consider  rightly  of  the 
matter, 
Caesar  has  had  great  wrong. 

Third  Citizen,     Has  he,  masters  ? 

1  fear  there  will  a  worse  come  in  his  place. 

Fourth    Citizen,      Marked    ye    his    words  .f^     He 

would  not  take  the  crown ; 
Therefore  'tis  certain  he  was  not  ambitious. 

First  Citizen.     If  it  be  found  so,  some  will  dear 

abide  it. 
Second  Citizen,     Poor  soul !  his  eyes  are  red  as 

fire  with  weeping. 
Third   Citizen.     There's    not   a    nobler   man    in 

Rome  than  Antony. 


SCENES   FROM   "JULIUS   CESAR"  255 

Fourth  Citizen.     Now  mark  him,  he  begins  again 

to  speak. 
Antony.     But     yesterday    the    word    of    Caesar 
might 
Have  stood  against  the  world ;  now  lies  he  there, 
And  none  so  poor  to  do  him  reverence. 

0  masters,  if  I  were  disposed  to  stir 
Your  hearts  and  minds  to  mutiny  and  rage, 

1  should  do  Brutus  wrong,  and  Cassius  wrong, 
Who,  you  all  know,  are  honorable  men: 

I  will  not  do  them  wTong ;  I  rather  choose 

To  wrong  the  dead,  to  wrong  myself  and  you, 

Than  I  will  wrong  such  honorable  men. 

But  here's  a  parchment  with  the  seal  of  Caesar; 

I  found  it  in  his  closet ;  'tis  his  will : 

Let  but  the  commons  hear  this  testament  — 

Which,  pardon  me,  I  do  not  mean  to  read  — 

And  they  would  go  and  kiss  dead  Caesar's  wounds 

And  dip  their  napkins  in  his  sacred  blood. 

Yea,  beg  a  hair  of  him  for  memory. 

And  dying,  mention  it  within  their  wills, 

Bequeathing  it  as  a  rich  legacy 

Unto  their  issue. 

Fourth  Citizen.     We'll    hear    the    will  :    read    it, 

Mark  Antony. 
All.     The  will !  the  will !    we  will  hear  Caesar's 

will. 
.Antony,     Have  patience,  gentle  friends,  I  must 

not  read  it : 


256  SCENES   FROM   "JULIUS   C^SAR " 

It  is  not  meet  you  know  how  Caesar  loved  you. 
You  are  not  wood,  you  are  not  stones,  but  men; 
And,  being  men,  hearing  the  will  of  Caesar, 
It  will  inflame  you,  it  will  make  you  mad: 
'Tis  good  you  know  not  that  you  are  his  heirs ; 
For,  if  you  should,  O,  what  would  come  of  it ! 
Fourth    Citizen.     Read    the    will,    we'll    hear    it, 
Antony; 
You  shall  read  us  the  will,  Caesar's  will. 

Antony.     Will    you    be    patient  ?    will    you    stay 
awhile } 
I  have  o'ershot  myself  to  tell  you  of  it ; 
I  fear  I  wrong  the  honorable  men 
Whose  daggers  have  stabbed  Caesar ;   I  do  fear  it. 
Fourth  Citizen.     They  were  traitors :  honorable 

men ! 
All.     The  will !  the  testament ! 
Second  Citizen.     They   were  villains,  murderers : 

the  will !  read  the  will. 
Antony.     You  will  compel  me,  then,  to  read  the 
will? 
Then  make  a  ring  about  the  corpse  of  Caesar, 
And  let  me  show  you  him  that  made  the  will. 
Shall  I  descend  t  and  will  you  give  me  leave } 
AIL     Come  down. 
Second  Citizen.     Descend.     {He  comes  down  from 

the  pulpit?) 
Third  Citizen.     You  shall  have  leave. 
Fourth  Citizen.     A  ring;  stand  round. 


SCENES   FROM    "JULIUS   C^SAR "  257 

First    Citizen.     Stand    from    the    hearse,    stand 
from  the  body. 

Second  Citizen.     Room  for  Antony,  most  noble 
Antony. 

Antony.     Nay,  press  not  so  upon  me ;  stand  far 
off. 

All.     Stand  back.     Room !      Bear  back. 

Antony,     If  you  have  tears,  prepare  to  shed  them 
now. 
You  all  do  know  this  mantle :  I  remember 
The  first  time  ever  Caesar  put  it  on ; 
*Twas  on  a  summers  evening,  in  his  tent, 
That  day  he  overcame  the  Nervii : 
Look,  in  this  place  ran  Cassius'  dagger  through : 
See  what  a  rent  the  envious  Casca  made : 
Through  this  the  well-beloved  Brutus  stabbed ; 
And,  as  he  plucked  his  cursed  steel  away, 
Mark  how  the  blood  of  Caesar  followed  it, 
As  rushing  out  of  doors,  to  be  resolved 
If  Brutus  so  unkindly  knocked,  or  no; 
For  Brutus,  as  you  know,  was  Caesar's  angel : 
Judge,  O  you  gods,  how  dearly  Caesar  loved  him ! 
This  was  the  most  unkindest  cut  of  all ; 
For  when  the  noble  Caesar  saw  him  stab. 
Ingratitude,  more  strong  than  traitors'  arms. 
Quite  vanquished  him :  then  burst  his  mighty  heart ; 
And,  in  his  mantle  muffling  up  his  face. 
Even  at  the  base  of  Pompey's  statua. 
Which  all  the  while  ran  blood,  great  Caesar  fell. 

KN.  DRAM.  READ. —  17 


(258) 


Mark  Antony  addresses  the  Romans 


SCENES   FROM    "JULIUS   C^SAR  "  259 

O,  what  a  fall  was  there,  my  countrymen  ! 
Then  I,  and  you,  and  all  of  us  fell  down, 
Whilst  bloody  treason  flourished  over  us.  . 
O,  now  you  weep,  and  I  perceive  you  feel 
The  dint  of  pity  :  these  are  gracious  drops. 
Kind  souls,  what,  weep  you  when  you  but  behold 
Our  Caesar's  vesture  wounded  ?     Look  you  here, 
Here  is  himself,  marred,  as  you  see,  with  traitors. 

First  Citizen.     O  piteous  spectacle  ! 

Second  Citizen,     O  noble  Caesar ! 

Third  Citizen.     O  woeful  day ! 

Fourth  Citizen,     O  traitors,  villains! 

First  Citizen.     O  most  bloody  sight ! 

Second  Citizen.     We  will  be  revenged. 

All.     Revenge!     About!     Seek!    Burn!    Fire  I 
Kill !     Slay !     Let  not  a  traitor  live  ! 

Antony.     Stay,  countrymen. 

First  Citizen.     Peace  there !  hear  the  noble  An- 
tony. 

Second  Citizen.     We'll  hear  him,  we'll  follow  him, 
we'll  die  with  him. 

Antony.     Good  friends,  sweet  friends,  let  me  not 
stir  you  up 
To  such  a  sudden  flood  of  mutiny. 
They  that  have  done  this  deed  are  honorable : 
What  private  griefs  they  have,  alas,  I  know  not. 
That  made  them  do  it;  they  are  wise  and  honorable, 
And  will,  no  doubt,  with  reasons  answer  you. 
I  come  not,  friends,  to  steal  away  your  hearts : 


26o  SCENES   FROM    "JULIUS   CAESAR" 

I  am  no  orator,  as  Brutus  is ; 

But,  as  you  know  me  all,  a  plain,  blunt  man, 

That   love    my   friend ;    and    that    they   know   full 

well 
That  gave  me  public  leave  to  speak  of  him  : 
For  I  have  neither  wit,  nor  words,  nor  worth, 
Action,  nor  utterance,  nor  the  power  of  speech, 
To  stir  men's  blood  :   I  only  speak  right  on  ; 
I  tell  you  that  which  you  yourselves  do  know; 
Show  you  sweet  Caesar's  wounds,  poor,  poor  dumb 

mouths, 
And  bid  them  speak  for  me :  but  were  I  Brutus, 
And  Brutus  Antony,  there  were  an  Antony 
Would  ruffle  up  your  spirits  and  put  a  tongue 
In  every  wound  of  Caesar  that  should  move 
The  stones  of  Rome  to  rise  and  mutiny. 
All.     We'll  mutiny. 

First  Citizen.     We'll  burn  the  house  of  Brutus. 
Third  Citizen-     Away  then !  come,  seek  the  con- 
spirators. 
Anto7iy.     Yet  hear  me,  countrymen;  yet  hear  me 

speak. 
All.     Peace,    ho!     Hear   Antony.     Most   noble 

Antony. 
Antony.     Why,  friends,  you  go  to  do  you  know 
not  what: 
Wherein  hath  Caesar  thus  deserved  your  loves? 
Alas,  you  know  not :   I  must  tell  you  then  ; 
You  have  forgot  the  will  I  told  you  of. 


SCENES   FROM    "JULIUS   C^SAR"  261 

AIL     Most  true  :  the  will !     Let's  stay  and  hear 

the  will. 
Antony.       Here  is  the  will,  and  under    Caesar's 
seal. 
To  every  Roman  citizen  he  gives, 
To  every  several  man,  seventy-five  drachmas. 

Second  Citizen.     Most  noble  Caesar!     We'll  re- 
venge his  death. 
Third  Citizen.     O  royal  Caesar  ! 
Antony.     Hear  me  with  patience. 
AIL     Peace,  ho  ! 

Antony.    Moreover,  he  hath  left  you  all  his  walks, 
His  private  arbors  and  new-planted  orchards, 
On  this  side  Tiber ;  he  hath  left  them  you. 
And  to  your  heirs  forever  ;  common  pleasures, 
To  walk  abroad  and  recreate  yourselves. 
Here  was  a  Caesar !  when  comes  such  another  } 

First  Citizen.     Never,  never.    Come,  away,  away  I 
We'll  burn  his  body  in  the  holy  place, 
And  with  the  brands  fire  the  traitors'  houses. 
Take  up  the  body. 

Second  Citizen.     Go,  fetch  fire. 
Third  Citizen,     Pluck  down  benches. 
Fourth    Citizen.      Pluck    down  forms,  windows, 
anything. 

\Exeunt  Citizens,  with  the  body. 
Antony.      Now  let  it  work.     Mischief,  thou  art 
afoot. 
Take  thou  what  course  thou  wilt ! 


262  SCENES   FROM   ''JULIUS   C^SAR " 

After  Caesar's  assassination  a  civil  war  followed,  in  which 
Brutus,  Cassius,  and  their  followers  opposed  the  party  who  wished 
to  make  Rome  a  monarchy. 

The  following  scene  shows  Brutus  and  Cassius  quarreling  over 
ways  and  means  that  Cassius  adopted  to  carry  on  the  war. 
Brutus  was  "  the  noblest  Roman  of  them  all,"  and  he  bitterly 
opposed  everything  that  seemed  to  him  ignoble. 

SCENE   II 

Place  :  Brutus'  tent 

I  Cassius 
Characters  \  ^ 

I  Brutus 

Cassius.     That  you  have  wronged  me  doth  appear 
in  this  : 
You  have  condemned  and  noted  Lucius  Pella 
For  taking  bribes  here  of  the  Sardians ; 
Wherein  my  letter,  praying  on  his  side, 
Because  I  knew  the  man,  was  sHghted  off. 

Brutus.     You  wronged  yourself  to  write  in  such 
a  case. 
Let  me  tell  you,  Cassius,  you  yourself 
Are  much  condemned  to  have  an  itching  palm, 
To  sell  and  mart  your  offices  for  gold 
To  undeservers. 

Cassius.  I  an  itching  palm! 

You  know  that  you  are  Brutus  that  speaks  this, 
Or,  by  the  gods,  this  speech  were  else  your  last. 

Brutus.     Remember  March,  the  ides  of  March 
remember : 


SCENES   FROM    "JULIUS   C^SAR"  263 

Did  not  great  Julius  bleed  for  justice'  sake  ? 
What  villain  touched  his  body,  that  did  stab, 
And  not  for  justice  ?     What,  shall  one  of  us, 
That  struck  the  foremost  man  of  all  this  world 
But  for  supporting  robbers,  shall  we  now 
Contaminate  our  fingers  with  base  bribes. 
And  sell  the  mighty  space  of  our  large  honors 
For  so  much  trash  as  may  be  grasped  thus? 
I  had  rather  be  a  dog,  and  bay  the  moon, 
Than  such  a  Roman. 

Cassius,  Brutus,  bay  not  me ; 

I'll  not  endure  it:  you  forget  yourself. 
To  hedge  me  in ;  I  am  a  soldier,  I, 
Older  in  practice,  abler  than  yourself 
To  make  conditions. 

Brutus,  Go  to ;  you  are  not,  Cassius. 

Cassius,     I  am. 

Brutus.  I  say  you  are  not. 

Cassius.     Urge  me  no  more,  I  shall  forget  myself; 
Have  mind  upon  your  health,  tempt  me  no  further. 

Brutus,     Away,  slight  man  ! 

Cassius,     I  s't  possible  .f* 

Brutus.  Hear  me,  for  I  will  speak. 

Must  I  give  way  and  room  to  your  rash  choler.? 
Shall  I  be  frighted  when  a  madman  stares } 

Cassius,     O  ye  gods,  ye  gods !     Must  I  endure 
all  this.? 

Brutus.     All  this.?  aye,  more.    Fret  till  your  proud 
heart  break ; 


264  SCENES   FROM    "JULIUS   CESAR" 

Go  show  your  slaves  how  choleric  you  are 
And  make  your  bondmen  tremble.     Must  I  budge, 
Must  I  observe  you  ?     Must  I  stand  and  crouch 
Under  your  testy  humor?     By  the  gods, 
You  shall  digest  the  venom  of  your  spleen, 
Though  it  do  split  you  ;  for,  from  this  day  forth. 
I'll  use  you  for  my  mirth,  yea,  for  my  laughter, 
When  you  are  waspish. 

Cassius.  Is  it  come  to  this  ? 

Brutus.     You  say  you  are  a  better  soldier: 
Let  it  appear  so ;  make  your  vaunting  true. 
And  it  shall  please  me  well :  for  mine  own  part, 
I  shall  be  glad  to  learn  of  noble  men. 

Cassius.     You  wrong  me  every  way ;  you  wrong 
me,  Brutus; 
I  said  an  elder  soldier,  not  a  better: 
Did  I  say,  better? 

Brutus.  If  you  did,  I  care  not. 

Cassius.     When  Caesar  lived,  he  durst  not  thus 
have  moved  me. 

Brutus.     Peace,  peace!    you  durst  not  so   have 
tempted  him. 

Cassius.     I  durst  not ! 

Brutus.     No. 

Cassius.     What,  durst  not  tempt  him ! 

Brutus.  For  your  life  you  durst  not. 

Cassius.     Do   not  presume    too  much  upon  my 
love. 
I  may  do  that  I  shall  be  sorry  for. 


SCENES   FROM    "JULIUS   C^SAR"  265 

Brutus.     You  have  done  that  you  should  be  sorry 
for. 
There  is  no  terror,  Cassiiis,  in  your  threats; 
Fur  I  am  armed  so  strong  in  honesty 
That  they  pass  by  me  as  the  idle  wind, 
Which  I  respect  not.     I  did  send  to  you 
For  certain  sums  of  gold,  which  you  denied  me : 
For  I  can  raise  no  money  by  vile  means ; 
By  heaven,  I  had  rather  coin  my  heart. 
And  drop  my  blood  for  drachmas,  than  to  wring 
From  the  hard  hands  of  peasants  their  vile  trash 
By  any  indirection :   I  did  send 
To  you  for  gold  to  pay  my  legions 
Which  you  denied  me :  was  that  done  like  Cassius  ? 
Should  I  have  answered  Caius  Cassius  so  ? 
When  Marcus  Brutus  grows  so  covetous, 
To  lock  such  rascal  counters  from  his  friends, 
Be  ready,  gods,  with  all  your  thunderbolts, 
Dash  him  to  pieces ! 

Cassius.  I  denied  you  not. 

Brutus,     You  did. 

Cassius.  I  did  not :  he  was  but  a  fool 

That  brought  my  answer  back.     Brutus  hath  rived 

my  heart : 
A  friend  should  bear  a  friend's  infirmities. 
But  Brutus  makes  mine  greater  than  they  are. 

Brutus.     I  do  not,  till  you  practice  them  on  me. 

Cassius.     You  love  me  not. 

Brutus.  I  do  not  like  your  faults. 


266  SCENES   FROM    "JULIUS   C^SAR" 

Cassius,     A  friendly  eye    could  never  see   such 

faults. 
Brutus.     A  flatterer's  would  not,  though  they  do 

appear 
As  huge  as  high  Olympus. 

Cassius.     Come,   Antony,  and    young    Octavius, 

come  ; 
Revenge  yourselves  alone  on  Cassius, 
For  Cassius  is  aweary  of  the  world ; 
Hated  by  one  he  loves  ;  braved  by  his  brother ; 
Checked  like  a  bondman  ;  all  his  faults  observed, 
Set  in  a  note-book,  learned,  and  conned  by  rote. 
To  cast  into  my  teeth.     O,  I  could  weep 
My  spirit  from  mine  eyes!     There  is  my  dagger, 
And  here  my  naked  breast ;  within,  a  heart 
Dearer  than  Plutus'  mine,  richer  than  gold : 
If  that  thou  be'st  a  Roman,  take  it  forth; 
I,  that  denied  thee  gold,  will^give  my  heart: 
Strike,  as  thou  didst  at  Cassar;  for  I  know. 
When  thou  didst  hate  him  worst,  thou  lovedst  him 

better 
Than  ever  thou  lovedst  Qassius. 

Brutus.  Sheath  your  dagger: 

Be  angry  when  you  will,  it  shall  have  scope  ; 
Do  what  you  will,  dishonor  shall  be  humor. 
O  Cassius,  you  are  yoked  with  a  lamb 
That  carries  anger  as  the  flint  bears  fire. 
Who,  much  enforced,  shows  a  hasty  spark 
And  straight  is  cold  again. 


SCENES   FROM   "JULIUS   C^SAR"  267 

Cassius.  Hath  Cassius  lived 

To  be  but  mirth  and  laughter  to  his  Brutus, 
When  grief  and  blood  ill-tempered  vexeth  him  ? 

Brutus,     When  I  spoke  that,  I  was  ill-tempered 
too. 

Cassius,     Do  you  confess  so  much  ?     Give   me 
your  hand. 

Brutus.     And  my  heaft  too. 

Cassius.  O  Brutus! 

Brutus.  What's  the  matter  ? 

Cassius.     Have  not  you  love  enough  to  bear  with 
me, 
When  that  rash  humor  which  my  mother  gave  me 
Makes  me  forgetful  ? 

Brutus.     Yes,  Cassius,  and  from  henceforth, 
When  you  are  over-earnest  with  your  Brutus, 
He'll  think  your  mother  chides,  and  leave  you  so. 


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issued  by  the  New  York  State  Education  Department. 
^  The  book  treats  of  grammar  only,  and  presents  many 
exercises  which  call  for  considerable  reflection  on  the  mean- 
ing of  the  expressions  to  be  analyzed.  Throughout,  stress 
is  laid  on  the  broader  distinctions  of  thought  and  expression. 
The  common  errors  of  written  and  spoken  language  are  so 
classified  as  to  make  it  comparatively  easy  for  pupils  to 
detect  and  correct  them  through  the  application  of  the  rules 
of  grammar.  The  book  ends  with  an  historical  sketch  of 
the  English  language,  an  article  on  the  formation  of  words, 
and  a  list  of  equivalent  terms  employed  by  other  grammari- 
ans.    The  full  index  makes  the  volume  useful  for  reference. 


AMERICAN     BOOK    COMPANY 

(78) 


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